Fraternization
by Doctor Harley Quinn
Summary: Fraternize (frat·er·nize \ˈfra-tər-ˌnīz): to associate on close terms with members of a hostile group, especially when contrary to military orders. Or: Jacob Seed and the Junior Deputy are finding it increasingly difficult to want to avoid one another.
1. Fraternization

**Fraternization**

* * *

Jacob does not like the Junior Deputy. That's to be expected, sure, given that they're on opposite sides of the fight, but usually he regards the people who cause trouble for Eden's Gate—his enemies—with a chilly and impartial dislike. This feels more personal than that.

For starters, she talks _way_ too much. Always got some smart-mouthed quip chambered, no matter how disadvantageous her position, no matter how little encouragement (or how much _discouragement_ ) she receives; it's almost like she can't help herself, a trait which earned Jacob's scorn early on. She has no self-control. She is _weak_.

And then there's the _laughing_. Seems like he can't go a day without hearing her distinct cackle, bubbling up from somewhere deep inside her like someone just told her the filthiest joke she's ever heard. She laughs when she's hanging out with those idiots she takes everywhere with her, Drubman and Boshaw, she laughs as she keys on her radio to tell him she's trashed another one of his beacons. She laughs at Joe; she laughs at John.

She doesn't laugh at Jacob much, but he's not about to jerk himself off too hard taking credit for that, because what she does instead is worse.

She flirts with him, almost _constantly_ , starting the day they met. Looked straight into his eyes as he bent over her, waited for him to pause, then whispered, "You wanted to tie me up, Jacob, you coulda just _asked_."

He ignored it at the time, because fear makes people say and do some dumbass things. _Anyway_ , he'd thought as he straightened up, wound the music box, _she'll learn soon enough that shit won't get her far with me_.

Only she hadn't. Two training sessions down and she's still coming onto him every chance she gets. She asks him over the radio if he's free for the night, apparently undeterred by the stony silence she gets in reply. The second time he told her his men were coming to collect her, she replied with a distracted-sounding "Oh, hell yeah, daddy, let's rumble." She tells him whenever she's leaving the mountains and whenever she comes back, invites him to come out from St. Francis and meet her for drinks, teasingly asks, "Hey, Jacob, you up?" all hours of the night. (He always is, and he never says so.)

He doesn't answer her, thinking maybe she'll see that her needling is doing nothing and she'll lose steam. She never does.

He hates her for it, hates her guts. She knows he's not receptive but keeps at it, and he believes that she's either intentionally trying to make him avoid her, best defense is a good offense and all that (tough shit, he's not gonna shy away like some pimply kid spooked at the prospect of talking to a girl), or—most likely—she's mocking him.

It's juvenile bullshit is what it is, pretty young thing like her trying to get a rise out of an ugly old son of a bitch like him, the kind of dumb shit that teenagers think is funny. Sometimes he listens to her talk to him and imagines those morons she keeps around giggling, waiting for him to get mad or get hopeful.

He wants to stomp it out of her. She should be taking this more seriously. That sense of humor should have burned out a long time ago; she should be afraid for her life, for her _friends'_ lives. She shouldn't feel comfortable enough to talk to him the way she does. He could rip that lightness right out of her, tamp down her spirit, and eventually, he will.

But he waits, because he knows that _re_ acting to her is not acting entirely of his own volition, and handing that measure of control over to her would be a weakness on his part. He's going to be patient, and he's going to be measured. He's going to do the thing she seems incapable of doing: he's going to control himself. Just more evidence that between the two of them, he's the strong one.

At length, the time is right, and Joseph's mad enough to greenlight him, and he sends his hunters for her again. This time he starves her for seven days before bothering to make his approach, and he can tell by the look of her, scrambling for the bowl at his feet, that he's finally making some headway. She looks sick, bags under her eyes, cheeks already hollower, and she almost chokes on the coils of raw meat. If she eats too fast, loses it, it's not his problem.

She doesn't say anything this time. She just listens as he tells her about the desert, about Miller, her eyes fixed on him, huge and unblinking. He thinks maybe she's finally starting to get the message, subdued by the realization of just how _easily_ and _quickly_ she can lose everything—that everything can be _taken_ from her. He feels a sense of grim satisfaction after running her through the third trial, confident that this will be enough to make her steer clear of him from now on.

He's not completely wrong—she leaves the region immediately and it takes a week before he hears from her again. But when he does…

"Jacob Seed, come back," chirps his radio, right about the time he's receiving intel that his guys have eyes on a crop duster that has just crossed from the Henbane into his region. He doesn't answer, but as usual, he doesn't have to. "Rook here. Just wanted to tell you I'm back in the area and if you're free for dinner, I'm down. But _I_ get to pick what we're eating, cause your taste is s-h-i-t shee- _yit_. Okay. Let me know. Over'n'out."

And he's tempted to actually _say_ something this time, to hold down that button and unload on her, _what in the goddamn hell is your problem, are you really this committed to your little game or do you just have the survival instincts of a lemming_ , but he slowly, quietly exhales through his nose and takes his hand off of the walkie altogether.

 _Just gotta be patient_ , he reminds himself. She's more stubborn than he thought, but he'll just keep pushing, and _pushing_ , and eventually, inevitably, he'll crush her. It's the way these things always go. No one can withstand the pressure forever.

But she's making him fucking _look_ bad, and he shouldn't be bothered about that, _wouldn't_ be, except his _family_ is starting to notice, and family doesn't play by the rules. _John_ doesn't play by the rules.

They're driving together to Joseph's compound, alone in a truck—they're both good at concealing it, John more than Jacob, but neither has much patience with Joe's followers, their glassy awe-struck eyes and their endless and repetitive stream of zealous chatter. They're useful, but terrible company as a whole, so whenever they can, Jacob and John travel together, when travel is called for.

(John's a little shit, but he's Jacob's brother, and those bonds hold _tight_. Jacob hasn't loved anyone new in years, _years_ , is pretty sure he can't anymore, doesn't _want_ to, but his little brothers were the first people he loved, and despite the time they spent separated from each other, he's found that that love hasn't gone anywhere.)

Jacob is driving, and John's riding shotgun and has one stylishly-booted foot carelessly propped up on the dash. Jacob is increasingly tempted to tap the brakes and drive John's face into his knee just to teach him how stupid that is, but then John's radio goes off with the news that the Deputy has blown up yet another of the dwindling number of silos, and John unconsciously saves himself by bringing his foot down to the floorboard and straightening up, eyes sharp with anger.

"This _awful_ little cunt," he mutters, far less cautious with his language around Jacob than he is around anyone else, and he starts fiddling with his radio.

Jacob realizes he's tuning into the frequency that the Deputy uses and protests immediately, both because he really doesn't want to hear her voice right now and because _John is giving her the reaction she's after_ : "Fuckin' _don't_ —"

But John is already pushing the button, and Jacob cuts himself off abruptly, because he doesn't want her to hear him and know he's there— _too_ abruptly, because John's eyes, half-sly and half-curious, cut towards him. _Goddamnit_. Jacob's hands tighten on the wheel, but he forces his grip to relax before his knuckles can visibly whiten. Last thing he needs to do is help his bloodhound of a little brother sniff out his reasons for not wanting to talk to her.

"You should exercise _restraint_ , Deputy," John oozes, the poisonous anger Jacob just saw completely tucked away behind a soft voice, a nearly playful tone. "The more destruction you cause, the more you'll have to make up for once you join us."

The Deputy's answer, when it comes, surprises Jacob a little. She laughs first, of course, and then says, in a tone harder than he's ever heard it, "Fuck off, John." That's it. No joking, no flirtation, no taunts, no indication that she wants him to talk back.

John, being John, talks back anyway. "You're not going to make any friends talking like _that_. Do you talk to Faith that way? Do you talk to _Jacob_ that way?" Jacob shoots his brother a sharp, decidedly threatening look, and John, seeing that he's struck the right nerve… his eyes are _alive_ and _overjoyed._

"Faith's never really around and I actually kinda _like_ Jacob, so no, I don't."

"Oh, you _like_ Jacob? Well, in that case, I guess you'd better talk to _him_." John abruptly holds the radio out to Jacob.

Jacob glares at him. "I'm driving."

The Deputy's voice comes through again. Her tone, as Jacob feared, is audibly more lighthearted. "Jacob's there with you, huh?"

John, the little rat, presses the button, though he doesn't bother to bring the walkie back to his own face. "Listening intently to every word."

"Hell, Jacob. You don't phone, you don't radio, you don't write—was it something I said?"

Jacob glares through the windshield and does his best to ignore the fact that John is pointedly wiggling the radio in his peripheral vision—then he makes a snap decision and snatches the thing from John's hand, because this is all so _stupid_ and he is going to put a stop to it before John can start inventing his own reasons for Jacob's reticence.

"Too busy to waste time chitchatting with _you_ , kid." He makes sure she can hear the contempt he's feeling.

She's got something stupid to say to that, per usual: "Didn't say we had to _talk_." He can hear her grinning, and beside him, John makes a quiet choked sound, a stifled laugh.

He keys on the radio and _growls_. "Deputy, you are poking the _fuckin'_ wolf."

"Well, _jeez_ , I wish the wolf would poke _back_."

There is absolutely nothing to say to that. Jacob turns off the radio with a sharp twist of the knob and then sets it on the dash in front of the steering wheel before returning his hands to ten and two. He doesn't look at John, because he knows exactly how John will be looking at him, with that delighted _knowing_ that always makes Jacob want to punch him.

John, of course, won't be ignored for long. He gives it about five seconds before saying. "So—does she _always_ talk to you that way?"

Jacob has a decision to make. He can shut down, answer in grunts, and ensure that John's interest is well and fully piqued, doubtless setting his brother on a quest to find out what he's hiding, or he can answer the questions and control the flow of information. He hates both options.

"Yeah," he says at length.

"Oh," John says, in a tone that's much too deliberate, too casual. After another moment: "She doesn't talk like that to _me_."

"No shit," Jacob snorts. "She knows exactly how you'd react."

"Watch the implications you're making, brother."

"Not implying jack shit. I'm _saying_ she knows if she tried that shit with you, you'd take her up on whatever she was offering."

"Oh, and you wouldn't?"

" _No_. That's the _point_. She feels safe tryin' to mess with me because she knows I'm not interested."

"Hm, and have you considered the possibility that _she's_ interested?"

Jacob scoffed. "Real fucking funny, John."

"I'm not joking, _Jacob_."

"Oh, yeah? You think there's even a _chance_ this isn't her trying to wind me up? You seen the girl? You seen _me_ lately? _Aside_ from bein' on opposite sides, _aside_ from what she's done to us and what _I've done to her_ , I'm twice her age—"

"Oh, please, she's hardly a _baby_ ," mutters John—

"—broke-down, soulless sonuvabitch, oh, _yeah_ , I'm sure she thinks I'm a real catch. Get your head outta your ass. She's playing a game, and she's not doing it very well."

"I'm just saying this _could_ be an opportunity, if you were willing to _see_ it as such. You—you've decided already that she's _weak_ , so you refuse to give her a second thought until you've made her strong, but she's smart, Jacob." Jacob scoffs again; John ignores him. "She's methodical and elusive and I for one can't believe that she'd willingly risk your anger and attention all to, to what? Get a _rise_ out of you? As if she even thinks that's _possible_. The idea isn't logical, so why don't you tell me—what's the alternative?"

Jacob glances at John, and he's a little surprised to see the envy twisting his expression, burning in his eyes. It doesn't help matters, because it means John actually _believes_ the shit he's spewing, believes that the Deputy is actually carrying a torch for Jacob, and that idea makes Jacob _profoundly_ uncomfortable.

As has this whole interaction. He doesn't think he's had a conversation this long with another person (speeches obviously exempted) in months, and it's making him itchy and irritated, making him regret engaging in the first place. He wants it to stop, but John is incorrigible, so…

It's not a move he's proud of, not a move he'd be seen making by anyone but one of his siblings (or, realistically, anyone but _John_ ), but he lifts his arm and smacks John hard across the back of his head, knocking those blue sunglasses askew and disturbing the perfectly coiffed hair. John recoils, cocking his arm at the elbow in a defensive move, and then, rage flashing across his face, he socks Jacob _hard_ in the shoulder.

They'd never do this in front of Joseph. Joseph is adamant that they shouldn't re-enact the physical violence on one another that their parents (guardians, COs, etc) inflicted on them; he's all gentle touches and a soft voice. Jacob and John, though, have a bond that excludes Joseph in that as controlled as they work to be, they crave violence on occasion, in that sometimes, it's the only way they can really express their anger and frustration. (Of course, as violence goes for them, this little exchange is about as rough as a pillow fight.)

Jacob sucks his teeth to show his contempt but doesn't retaliate, and after ten or so seconds of no sound but the humming truck motor, he says, "You hit like a girl."

John smooths his hair back, fixes his sunglasses back in place on top of his head, and says, "Just don't be a fucking idiot and let a good opportunity pass you by because you're too goddamned _stubborn_ to recognize it. That's all I'm trying to say."

Jacob doesn't respond to that, because he doesn't want to get mired into more _talk_. A few moments of quiet pass, then John leans forward and cuts on the radio, where that choir song of his is playing, and Jacob doesn't move to switch it off, because hokey music is better than the alternative. They don't speak to each other for the rest of the trip, and by the time they get to Joseph's, the hatchet is buried and they're refocused on the issues at hand.

Jacob isn't worried yet that John will tell Joseph (or even Faith, for that matter) about their conversation. John likes to sit on secrets until they're a relative powder keg and only _then_ unleash them where they'll do the most damage; Jacob figures that at the rate the Deputy's going, he has a few weeks before he has to have an extremely awkward conversation with Joseph because John won't keep his mouth shut any longer.

However—

The conversation with John has opened a can of worms. Jacob knows his brother, and he knows John likes to fuck with people's heads, _including_ his siblings', but he keeps thinking back to the jealousy he saw on John's face, like he really, _really_ believed that the Deputy was giving something to Jacob that she had never bothered to give to John, and…

Before that, Jacob hadn't even considered the possibility that the Deputy's flirtations with him might be rooted in anything genuine, but John's input is making him doubtful. Of course, doubt is weak, useless bullshit, and Jacob is increasingly irritated by the time he has to spend _not_ thinking about this.

A few days after the conversation with John, Jacob hasn't slept, and it's a few hours before dawn, so he grabs his rifle and his knife and he leaves St. Francis without a word to anyone. Hunting will focus him, keep him calm.

He hikes till maybe an hour before sunrise, till the sky is starting to lighten and he can see things pretty clearly, before he starts looking for a place to set up and watch. As he's looking for an ideal position, though, he hears something in the distance—some shouting, and a bloodcurdling scream, cut off abruptly. It came from somewhere a little further east.

He makes more of an effort to silence his footfalls, to keep to cover, and he heads in the direction of the sound. Maybe ten minutes later, he reaches the edge of a tree line, looking out over a rocky cliff face housing a small waterfall.

He spots the source of the noise pretty quickly, three faithful, all lying dead around the edge of the pool the waterfall spills into. He also sees something just beyond them—a red flannel shirt, hanging from the edge of a ledge above the pool, and above that, the Deputy, in just jeans and undershirt despite the cold of the predawn air, sitting beside a thin stream of falling water.

She doesn't look much better than the last time he saw her. Maybe she's had a few solid meals since then, but she doesn't look rested, and with her hair tied up high and out of her way he can see that there's a big gash through her eyebrow, probably inflicted by one of the three dead, given that it's still bleeding heavily. She's rummaging through something out of his sight, but pauses and lifts her head even as he watches, sensing something _off_.

Jacob steps out from the tree line, intentionally drawing her eye to his raised rifle, trained right on her.

True to form, she doesn't take him as seriously as she should. "Oh. Hey, Jacob. Weird to see you this far from your fortress; you come to kill me?"

"Toss away your weapons," he orders.

"I don't _actually_ think you're here to kill me," she continues, jerking her pistol from the holster on her leg and flinging it carelessly over her shoulder, making him have to work to keep from flinching— _gun safety, you complete idiot_ —"because I'm _pretty_ sure that _Only You_ bullshit you're putting me through every time I see you is leading to _something_ wherein I'm more useful to you alive than dead, but—" a knife follows the pistol—"I've been wrong _so_ many times before, so it'd be cool if you just tell me."

"You've got more on you than just those," Jacob says when she doesn't appear to be discarding any more weapons.

"Well, _yeah_ , but it's all in the pack that has the supplies I need to stitch this." She gestures vaguely at her bloodied eyebrow. "So excuse me if I'm not keen to throw it aside. Pointless, anyway—I'm not gonna mess with you right now. You can come try to take it if you're feeling rowdy, though."

"Or I could just shoot you."

"You _could,_ but you _haven't_ yet," she says, and turns back to her task like that's the end of the discussion.

Jacob, irked, takes a few steps forward. He's not about to say so, but _she's_ more of a threat to him in this situation than he is to _her_ —he's supposed to avoid killing her if at all possible, whereas he has no reason to believe she has compunctions about killing him or any of his siblings, regardless of what she says.

As he draws nearer, he can see that she's wedged a little mirror into the cliff face just in front of her and is using it to examine the cut. He watches, rifle still at the ready, as she goes into her bag and emerges with a needle and sutures. She splashes both with whiskey from a bottle sitting next to her, takes a quick pull, then sets the bottle down and starts threading the needle.

"You gonna stitch that up yourself?"

She glances at him and asks, "You offering to help?"

He snorts. She smiles a little bit, says, "I thought not," then turns back to the mirror. "So, if you're not planning to kill me, does that mean you're here to _abduct_ me again?"

He doesn't answer, just draws closer, till he's just a yard or so away from the ledge where she's sitting. The ledge is about at his chest level, which puts her above him, but gives him a good view of her hands and what she's doing. For now, she appears to be focused on stitching her cut, peering into the mirror as she lifts the needle to her forehead.

The realization dawns on him that this is the first—might end up being the _only_ —time he's got her completely to himself, no soldiers watching him lecture her, nobody listening in. No witnesses to what might be said and done. Means it's time to deal with the thorn in his side.

"You plannin' to quit your bullshit, or do I gotta make you?"

She scowls reflexively as the needle breaks her skin. "What bullshit?"

 _What bullshit_. As if there's _anything_ else he could be talking about.

"The goddamn come-ons," he says, too impatient to deal with the issue to call her out for playing dumb. "It's not cute. Knock it off."

She shoots him a quick look—seems almost _surprised_ —but just as fast, she looks away, reaching towards the stream of water falling just a foot away from her, catching some in her hand and using it to dash at the blood that threatens to fall in her eyes, holding the needle steady in her other hand. "Oh," she says, shaking the excess water off of her fingers. "I, uh—didn't realize it was bothering you."

"It's not bothering me. It's _idiocy_. You know, frankly, I'm surprised your people haven't told you to _quit it_ by now."

She makes another stitch and she laughs, not her usual witchy giggle, this a quiet, low sound that makes his hackles rise, lifts the hair on the back of his neck. "Oh, man. They don't think I've got a shot in hell, so they don't really care."

Try as he might, Jacob can't make that last sentence make sense. He casts about for something to explain it and after a few seconds, lands on something feasible. "What, you got a bet running or something?"

"Yeah."

He _fucking_ knew it. "Who with?" he asks, mentally pulling up the list of people he plans to kill before this is all over.

"Sharky."

Boshaw. Of _course_ it was that idiot. On the plus side, Jacob doesn't have to modify his kill list; Boshaw's been on there since he burned down a whole hectare of forest just half a mile from St. Francis, sparking a very real concern that the fire would reach the building.

"How much?"

"Twenty bucks."

Jacob tries very hard to keep from seeing red, but fails. Twenty dollars. _Weeks_ of irritation for _twenty dollars_.

He glances around, makes a decision. She's not going to try anything, he's pretty sure of it by now, so he slings his rifle across his back and goes over to the fallen faithful, stooping and going through their pockets. Jacob hasn't carried a wallet in a good while, certainly not since this all began—no use in carrying ID when everyone knows who you are; no use in carrying money when you just take what you need—but he's able to scrounge some cash from the dead. By the time he's searched all three, the Deputy's done with her stitches, rinsing her hands in the waterfall and watching him with open interest.

He heads back to her. "There," he says, dumping his haul on the rocks beside her. One ten, one five, eight crumpled ones. "Twenty-three dollars. That enough to make you put this shit to bed?"

She looks at him like _he's_ the one who's lost his mind. "Jacob, I'm gonna stop because you _asked_ me to. Seriously, I didn't think you cared one way or the other. Definitely didn't realize it was bothering you this much."

"I don't. It's not."

She ducks her head, taking her hair down from its topknot to keep from having to look at him, but he's below her and can still see the skeptical little frown she's trying to hide. It irks him, and he squares his shoulders and starts to turn, to leave.

"You—"

He stops dead, turns back to her even as she cuts herself off, hitching an eyebrow pugnaciously high. _What?_ He doesn't have to say it out loud; his frown and his stance demand an explanation.

She looks nervous and puts off answering by shifting to the edge of the shelf, turning to face him, crossing her legs. "You _do_ realize that the bet was just… incidental, right?"

His forehead furrows. _What the hell are you talking about_ , he doesn't ask.

She looks away again. Scratches the inflamed skin around the fresh stitches with a short fingernail. Mutters, "This is the stupidest thing I've ever done," then looks back at him, obviously having come to some decision.

"Look, I wasn't just fucking around, okay? Like, if that's what you're mad about, then _don't_ be. If you think that was all just a joke, or me trying to win a stupid bet, it wasn't. I was sending out real feelers, but now that you've told me to knock it off, don't worry, all right? I'll stop."

"You're not making any sense, Dep," he says, slowly. "What are you telling me, that you…" He can't even say it, it's so absurd.

She does it for him. "Kinda _like_ you, yeah. Stupid to admit, but worse to hide from, I think. Don't want to give it too much power."

He looks at her _hard_ , looking for signs of bullshit, waiting for a punchline that he gradually realizes isn't coming. On her face he sees nothing but a grim determination, undercut by naked fear. _Jesus, John was right_ , he realizes—he will _never_ admit it to him, though—and with that realization, he feels like he's been punched _hard_ in the chest.

" _Why_?" He can't seem to control himself; the question comes spilling out before he can decide if it's a wise one to ask.

She laughs again, that low, almost mean sound, and he realizes he's hearing bitterness. "Million dollar question, isn't it? I can't figure it out. I mean, the _attraction_ part is obvious, you've definitely got the looks in the family—" _what the hell,_ thinks Jacob wildly—"but the rest of it? You kidnapped my friend, you _torture_ me, part of me is _sure_ you planted all this in one of your little brainwashing sessions, though I feel like if that was true you would've _done_ something with it by this point. Plus you look as confused as I _feel_ right now."

Jacob knows he should say something, take control of this whole mess somehow, but he neither moves nor speaks. She's right: he's _completely_ thrown, has _no_ idea how to deal with this. He realizes much too late that he should have listened to John and prepared a course of action for this outcome, but in his defense, this is _crazy_.

Rook straightens up, rolls her shoulders back, and looks away from him. "And—I don't know—responding to it by trying to flirt with you was stupid, I know, but it made me feel better about the whole thing. Like if I threw it out into the open it couldn't do anything to hurt me. _Obviously_ that was a dumbass idea. But like I said, I'm done, and I'm sure it'll fade more with every new horrible fuckin' thing you do, and I would _really_ like you to go right now so I can experience my complete shame and humiliation in private."

Jacob doesn't move, just looks at her. He recalls seeing her in the church for the first time, remembers not really thinking one way or another about her then. He didn't really understand John's weird _thing_ for her until he was leaning over her for the first time, staring for longer than he should, recognizing the fire in her eyes and suddenly believing fully for the first time that _this_ was the girl who was cutting a path of destruction through the county. Her ferocity distinguishes her, makes her beautiful, and beauty is useless to him, so he pushed hers away, ignored it as he went about his business, but he's kind of wishing he hadn't, because it's kicking him in the ass right now.

This girl has ripped apart half the county, taking their buildings, their supplies, _countless_ lives. He calls her weak and in a lot of ways that holds true, but in other ways, especially when it comes to her proclivity for inspiring and _surviving_ total chaos, she's tough as hell. Looking at the pure facts, ideology aside, she's the single greatest threat to Eden's Gate, and he's the single greatest threat to her life.

And she _wants_ him.

It's the most foolhardy thing he's ever heard, but he's also unexpectedly electrified. If he could think clearly, he'd consider John's words about this being an _opportunity_ , he'd figure out the best way to use the information to his advantage, but he's not thinking about much of anything as he takes a step forward, towards her.

The motion draws her attention, and she must see something in his expression, because hers changes. She goes from looking ashamed and afraid to—well, still afraid, he's done a damn sight to make sure she'll always be at least a _little_ scared of him, but startled, surprised he's not going, and then, slowly, some sort of understanding dawns.

She shifts, slowly, like he's a wild animal she's trying not to spook, and unfolds her legs so they're hanging off the edge in front of him. He steps forward again, and now his chest rests against her knees, and she's reaching for him, sliding a hand down the edge of his face to grip him by the jaw so she can tilt his face up. The touch isn't a questioning one—demanding, if anything, and doesn't _that_ just knock the wind right out of him—but in bending down towards him, she pauses, her face a few inches from his, and looks him in the eye.

"Say no," she says, almost whispering, and he can't tell if she's challenging him or begging him, and the look in her eyes doesn't help him suss out which. "Tell me to stop, and I will."

(He _should_. This is reckless, this is foolishness, this is _weakness_.)

He doesn't.

When she finally kisses him, everything seems quiet. She's slow, purposeful, like they've got all the time in the world, and she smells like the woods, tastes like the whiskey she's been drinking. Her nails scrape at the stubble starting to grow in along his scalp and she makes a soft little noise when he opens his mouth to her and _goddamn,_ he'd forgotten what this was _like_.

The quiet turns into a pulsing roar as the blood rushes in his ears; he feels his heartbeat picking up. He needs to put an end to this _now_ , and he lifts his hands, thinks about pushing her away but instead reaches up to grab her by the hips and drag her off the ledge, closer, into his arms.

She makes a noise of approval and hooks her legs around his waist, anchoring herself with an arm around his shoulders, her other hand still holding his jaw tight like she's afraid he'll pull away. _Not much chance of that anymore, sweetheart_. With her flush against him like this, he can feel that she's running hot despite the chill in the air, probably still revved up from the fight she just had. He palms her ass with one hand, the other tangled in the roots of her hair, tugging at it just enough to make her whimper and squirm against him, and for the first time in a long time, he's not thinking about the work to be done.

She actually moves to pull back first, and he lets her, loosening his hand from her hair and slipping it instead beneath the hem of her undershirt, splayed out against the soft skin of her lower back. She doesn't go far, resting her forehead against his, eyes closed, wincing as the move puts pressure on the fresh stitches he feels prickling at his eyebrow. "Shouldn't," she mumbles.

She's right, but Jacob's a _made-your-bed-now-lie-in-it_ kind of guy. "No takin' it back," he points out, his voice a quiet rasp, and he feels a shudder ripple through her whole body before she leans back down to meet his waiting mouth.

There's more urgency now, now that she's reminded herself of _exactly_ how bad an idea this is. She kisses him hungrily, and he wonders faintly how it was possible that he hadn't _seen_ this. She's always _watched_ him like she's physically incapable of looking away, and he always attributed that to the danger he posed, but the way she's clinging to him right now, like she never wants to let go…

He slides his hand heavy up her spine and she breaks away from him to rest her head against his shoulder and moan into the side of his neck, like she can't help herself. When she comes back to him, he catches her bottom lip between his teeth before he lets her kiss him again, scraping at it hard enough that it'll be sore later, that she won't forget about this soon. She makes another little pleased sound, her nails scratching a spot just beneath his ear that makes him—

 _Boy, you really are an entire idiot, aren't you?_

The voice in his head is an old one, not _his_ voice, a voice he hasn't been able to shake in all his years, and it jars him like it always does. He snaps back to himself all at once, dropping her and stepping back like it'll burn him if he touches her again.

She's obviously surprised, but gets her feet back under her in time to keep from falling, though she has to grasp backward at the ledge to get her balance. She looks confused, then horrified. "Oh, god. You weren't Blissed out, were you? I didn't smell anyth—I never would have—"

"I'm not on Bliss," he says, his breath coming heavier than it should. His heart's still beating fast; there's no way she hadn't felt it, her chest pressed up against his like that, but there's no changing it—he _let_ her get that close, it's _his_ fault, and he accepts that.

She's starting to look like she understands, and he waits for the shock and self-loathing to dawn on her face, but it seems to be taking a while. She looks flustered, sure, also a little out of breath, her hair rumpled, mouth a bit swollen, and her bottom lip red where he bit her, but she doesn't look upset yet. "Oh," she says. "Okay. Um—"

He takes charge of the situation, because it doesn't matter if he doesn't _feel_ calm and unaffected as long as he _acts_ right. "This little ceasefire ends as soon as you're out of sight, you understand? Don't make the mistake of thinking anything's changed."

It's like he flipped a switch. Instead of the quiet, contemplative Deputy he's been dealing with this morning, she's instantly back to the hellion, giving him a broad grin he usually only sees from afar as she cracks skulls with her baseball bat. "Hey, right back at ya, Buttercup," she says easily.

Normally he'd come down on her hard for the mocking nickname, but nothing about this morning has been _normal_ and he's eager to _end_ it, put it behind him as fast as possible. He draws a breath, holds it for a second, meets her eyes, and says, "This is never happening again."

"Yep, I agree."

He exhales slowly, then gives her a decisive, terse nod. "All right, then. Go on, _git_."

The cheery demeanor doesn't falter for a second. She turns and grabs her shirt, slipping it back on but not bothering to button it up, then lifts her pack off the ledge where she left it and slings it onto her back. She turns back and brushes past him, firing off a cocky little salute on her way, and kneels down twice on her way back to the forest to retrieve her discarded knife, then her gun. She doesn't look back at him even once, just breaks through the tree line, and he watches until the red of her shirt becomes indistinguishable from the autumn leaves and the fire of the rising sun.

That's about the time he finally is able to get a deep breath. He glances around, checking the scene, double-checking that no one's watching or that nothing incriminating is lying around, but he's just met with the sound of running water and the sight of the faithful's glazed eyes staring skyward.

This has been a mistake—an indulgence—and Jacob accepts that at some point, he might face consequences for it, but he can't do anything about that, so there's no point in getting all neurotic about it. All he can do _now_ is refuse to let it affect his life, his _work_ , and to that end, he starts the hike back to St. Francis.

The sun is well up in the sky by the time he gets back, and he's feeling warm and worn-out in a way he hasn't felt in some time, the sleepless nights finally catching up to him. He checks on operations at the Center (running as smoothly as can be expected), reviews the happenings in the Whitetail Mountains (the Junior Deputy was spotted about an hour ago, she'd bombed a beacon and vanished again), and then he tells his subordinate Marsten that he's retiring till evening and that no one but Joseph should be allowed to disturb him.

He showers off for about a minute and a half, just long enough to scrub and rinse, pulls on some sweats, and heads to the little room adjoining his office where he keeps a cot. He lies down and is asleep in moments.

He sleeps soundly for six hours, uninterrupted. If he has any dreams, he doesn't remember them when he wakes.

* * *

 **notes** \- Hi I'm new here and I think it's neat that Jacob's southern accent is the only one you can kinda still hear, you done good Pellegrino.

Rook definitely just sexually harassed Jacob for a straight month until the man _snapped_ , which is _super_ uncool but he's also a deeply shitty person so they're both just the worst, I guess. Now the question is: will this piece be sufficient to exorcise my FC5 demons or am I doomed to write stuff for this void for the rest of eternity? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

(pls talk to me about the ginger mountain man. or John if you want, bc I am obsessed with John but not in the way he'd probably want me to be lol)


	2. Hunting Party - 1

**A/N** \- just a smidge of housekeeping- this was originally supposed to be a one-shot. Then I realized I can't leave well enough alone and it's turning into a series. Thing is, the FC5 fandom on here is practically nonexistent, and I'd rather not inflate the entire category with a whole bunch of my stories posted on their own, and this series will all fit under the whole umbrella of Fraternization, so the plan is to just keep posting chapters to this story, even though it will be divided into sub-sections that are arcs in their own right, all contributing to an overall story arc. It'll be chronological and (hopefully) organized, the main thing you need to know if you're here and you're interested is that there may be gaps of time between these sub-sections as I write the next one. AO3 features a more focused FC5 fandom and better organization and my profile there will definitely be the home base for this series but I didn't want to just not post material here if I have it. If you're cool with all that, then welcome to part 2!

* * *

 **Hunting Party**

 **1.**

 _Maybe it won't end up mattering that I made out with my nemesis._

"I ain't sure we should go in here," says Hurk doubtfully as they stand on the hill overlooking the distant, currently-Peggy-run Hot Springs Hotel. "See, Limp Dick Larry—so called on account a' the time he got his pecker caught in a car door, and now it don't work too good _,_ I mean, that's what I hear, I ain't seen it in action of course—well he told me he brought a girl up here, presumably before the pecker incident, and he saw some weird shit, like—"

 _He seemed eager to move right past it, so that means he probably won't tell anybody, and if he doesn't tell anybody, and I don't tell anybody, and nothing changes like he said, then there's no_ _ **reason**_ _to regret it, right?_

"—lamps lifting off the shelves, blood drippin' from the windowpanes, some ghost girl with long black hair coverin' her face, though man I tell you I don't think I believe that last one, I think he's just been watching too many of them _yurei_ movies—"

 _And the fact that I've been thinking about it nonstop for a full week is totally normal after doing some good kissing. Doesn't mean jack. Really, the worst thing about it is that I can't tell Sharky that I won the bet._

"—but even if he's only _kinda_ tellin' the truth, I don't feel great about this place, you know, I'm not too good with ghosts. When I was ten we had a ghost, it used to come scratching at my window at night, scared the piss outta me. One night my daddy got tired of me talking about it and locked me outside with nothin' but my BB gun, I swear to you I thought I was gonna die, but that ghost never did show up. Shot some raccoons trying to get into the trash cans, though."

 _One thing I'm not going to do is be that dumbass that pines for a total and complete asshole of a man_.

"Popo?" Sharky's voice cuts through Hurk's rambling. "You, uh… you all right there?"

His tone is uncharacteristically tentative. It's enough to jar Rook from her circular mental wallowing, and she turns to Sharky, flashing a bright, reflexive grin. "Peachy keen. Why, don't I _look_ all right?"

Sharky says, "Uh." Hurk, in an unusual moment of perception, slowly turns away from them both, clearly wishing he was somewhere else.

Rook narrows her eyes. "Okay, spit it out."

Sharky glances at Hurk for help, but when his cousin proves useless on that front, Rook can practically _see_ him think _fuck it_. "You've been acting a little weird lately, is all. Been real quiet for a week, at least. That's not like you."

 _Well, shit._ He's right, of course—she's been a little bit fucky ever since she came back from the Whitetail Mountains last week with a fresh gash in her forehead and a _lot_ to try to avoid thinking about. ( _Try_ being the operative word.) She's noticed herself completely _disappearing_ down trails of thought lately, and granted, they're not _all_ about whateverthefuck happened up there with Jacob Seed, but the ones involving the other Seed siblings or the captured deputies are no less gripping.

They're at the start of the _second month_ of this little civil war, and the more familiar Rook grows with the county's inhabitants, the more she feels the little ball of dread in the pit of her stomach swell. The paths to any good (or even just _decent_ ) ending she can imagine are closing off, one by one, as things continue to escalate. Thinking about it makes her feel panic in her chest, straining to get loose. She spends a lot of time not thinking about it.

(This means she spends more time thinking about Jacob instead. It's lose/lose situation, but not much else stands a chance of holding her attention in spare moments.)

"See? See right there? S' _exactly_ what I'm talking about." Sharky's voice jars her, and she flinches. _Shit,_ she's been doing it again. It must be really bad if Sharky is noticing it; she'd always thought of Hurk and Sharky as the guys you hang out with when you _don't_ want anyone asking why you're acting strange. She's been hanging out with them a lot lately.

"I'm not trying to be _nosy_ or nothing," he continues, "but someone's gotta say it: it's fuckin' _odd_ , you being so spacey. Did something happen, or—?"

 _Shit_ , she thinks again. _Threat level midnight. Damage control!_

"Nothing _ever_ happens to me. I have the most _boring_ life imaginable."

"Okay. Well, _that's_ obviously bullshit, so—"

"He's right," Hurk chimes in, his back still half-turned, and Rook turns her attention to him, her smile sharpening into something close to a threat. Hurk eyes her, a little wary, but doesn't back down. "Well, shit, man, you come from ol' Jacob's area, fresh lump on your noggin, real quiet, and we're supposed to act like we don't notice? Shit goes on up there."

"Y'all worried I'm gonna snap and kill you both?" Rook asks, saying it like it's a joke to hide the fact that that's _exactly_ what _she's_ afraid of.

"Hell no. We can take you," Hurk says, hefting his RPG confidently.

Rook laughs, immediately feeling better, and the slight tension that has sprung up between the three of them vanishes, just like that. "I don't know, dudes. Shit just gets heavy sometimes. Hanging out with the two of you usually helps me not think about it, but it creeps in now and again. You know?"

The two are unusually silent for a moment. Sharky rubs the back of his neck, and Rook suddenly feels awful. It's not fair to lay her angst on them—they've got their own issues to deal with; this is _their_ home that's being taken and twisted, and anything she's dealing with pales in comparison to that. Before she can say anything, try to apologize for being self-centered, Hurk asks hesitantly, "Will blowin' shit up help?"

She doesn't know if it'll help _her_ , but it'll probably help _them_ , so gamely, she puts on a grin. "Only one way to find out, right?" she replies, and then she _charges_ him.

"Whoa, whoa, _whoa_ ," he says, alarmed, but she ignores him. A second before impact, she sees his eyes widen in the understanding that _she isn't going to stop_ , and he barely gets his back turned in time before she _jumps_ on him.

"Carry me, Hurk, I'm _tired_ ," she whines as she clambers up his shoulders, pinning her knees to his sides and wrapping her arms around his neck.

"Well, dang, man, I'm tired, too," grouses Hurk, but nonetheless, he shifts the RPG to one arm and uses the other to circle her thigh, securing her in place, and he starts off towards the car down the hill. (Hurk doesn't necessarily look like it, and he definitely doesn't act like he knows it, but he's quite possibly the physically strongest person Rook's ever met. Case in point: she's _not_ a small woman, just a hair shy of six feet—of a height with John Seed, as a matter of fact—and she's not skinny for her height, either, _despite_ what Jacob Seed thinks, but Hurk barely seems to notice the extra weight, despite his complaints.) "Come on," he says, "let's go wreck some Peggies' days."

Sharky follows them with a staccato little "Fuck, yeah."

She manages to keep her mind on her friends for the rest of the day. They take the hotel from the cult as the sun sets, and in the aftermath, before members of the Resistance arrive to take it over, they scare the shit out of each in a search of the building that gradually turns into a game of hide and seek. (More like hide and _scare_ , given that it consists mostly of them scurrying around to nooks and crannies and popping out at the nearest unassuming body, a dangerous game for people as heavily armed as they are—a game that ends when Sharky briefly sets the hotel on fire in reaction to a particularly shitty move on Hurk's part, wherein Hurk had crept out from behind the shower curtain while Sharky was just trying to rock a piss.)

Sharky suggests 8-Bit afterwards, but Rook begs off, claiming to be worn out. She giggles a little at the sight of them piled onto an ATV together, waves in response to Sharky's extended arm as they take off, then they turn a corner and she lets her hand fall and feels the warmth that comes with being around them ebb away, fast. _Figures_.

She needs to put this Jacob shit to bed before it gets her in trouble.

She sighs, orients herself facing northwest, and hikes towards the McCoy cabin, which she'd cleaned up some and has been using as a place to sleep and eat when she finds herself in the Henbane overnight. (Adelaide has repeatedly told her she's welcome to stay at the marina whenever she likes, but—"Addy, that's a sweet offer, but your walls are like tissue paper, so _no_.")

 _Why?_ he had asked her, as in _why the fuck do you like me,_ and she'd basically told him she didn't know, which wasn't really true. She'd been thinking about it so much since they'd met that she'd reached _some_ sort of understanding by then, though it wasn't exactly a logical one—but Jacob had been so thrown off his game by her admission that she was into him at _all_ that he hadn't seemed to have the focus to press for a real answer.

Part of it is all in her head. There are dozens if not _hundreds_ of copies of Joseph's little gospel scattered around the county; Rook, a big believer in knowing her enemy, had picked one up at the first opportunity. It took no time at all to read, and just like that, she had the Seed brothers' background—from an unreliable narrator, to be sure, but the more she gets to know the men, the more she believes what the book said. At the very least, she believes that _Joseph_ believes the story.

That puts her at a disadvantage, because now she knows about the grind these three men have been through—combined with what Faith has already told her about _her_ past, that makes the whole family who'd had shitty lives—and while she knows and believes that having a tragic backstory doesn't justify spending one's life giving _other people_ tragic backstories, it still changes the way she thinks about the Seeds.

Jacob, in particular, stands out to her, like a rough edge that refuses to be smoothed away—not because she thinks the others have fewer demons, but because of the way Jacob _reacts_ to his. The others use the shit they've been through to make themselves look more sympathetic (to some effect, she admits—even as she's furious at all the Seeds for the shit they've done to the people in the county, even as she counters them wherever she possibly can, she's _sad_ for them all in a bone-deep way that she carries around with her constantly), whereas Jacob uses the horror _he's_ been through to make himself more alien, more inaccessible, distancing himself from anything approaching humanity.

It's foolish and self-indulgent, she knows, but she can't seem to stop herself from thinking about his shitshow of a life, speculating about his time after being abandoned by the army, homeless and anchorless, and how he developed his worldview, trying to make him make sense. She knows she's projecting her imagination onto him, seeing things that likely don't exist, but _knowing_ that doesn't help her stop _doing_ it, or feel less of that weird little ache in her chest when she thinks about him for a bit too long. It makes her want to be _more_ open with him instead of _less_ , to try to pull similar humanity from _him_ , a stubborn impulse: _look, see? We're not just meat._ That line of thought has already made her feel more emotionally attached than is wise.

As far as the physical attraction—well, the man's a big strong redhead with killer bone structure, a soft voice that gives her the good kind of chills, and those pretty blue eyes all the biological Seeds share, and she's always appreciated the distinction scars give a person, so of _course_ she's into all that. Moreover, she suspects it's her brain's way of coping with the fact that she's kind of scared shitless of him, interpreting that electric little thrill that shoots down her spine whenever he's around as a _good_ feeling instead of a _bad_ one.

(She's not even scared she'll lose to him, because she's pretty confident at this point that she and her crew can handle whatever the Seeds throw at them. Instead, she's scared of how he always seems to know where she is and what she's doing whenever she's in his area, worried by how quickly and easily he can have her brought to him if he wants to, by how capable he's proven at messing around in her head. She's afraid he's going to fuck her up permanently. She's afraid he already _has_.)

She's also still a _little_ suspicious that these feelings for him were initially planted in his little fucking brainwashing sessions. Unintentionally, she's pretty sure—looking at him when she confronted him with it, she determined that he previously had _no idea_ that she feels the way she does about him—but the song he's chosen for whatever the hell he's doing is indisputably a romantic one, and she thinks maybe, _maybe_ the tone of it had seeped into her subconscious and set her on this path to begin with.

Doesn't help that it turns out he's good with his mouth. And his hands. God, all they'd done was _kiss_ and she still can't think about it too long without getting a little lightheaded. It's ridiculous.

It all adds up to the perfect recipe for an ill-advised crush, which is… whatever, shit happens and bodies and brains don't play by the rules if they can help it, but then she'd had to go and fucking _admit_ it to him. Granted, she'd taken a lead pipe to the forehead about ten minutes before he'd emerged from the woods; it had definitely split her eyebrow open like a ripe tomato, but more than that, she's thinking it was the thing that scrambled her brains to the point where she thought that _confessing_ was a good idea.

At the time, she'd thought telling him was the best option, because he'd either a.) try to use the crush to manipulate her, a shitheel move that had a good chance of killing said crush outright, or b.) get really freaked out and start avoiding her. She hadn't considered the possibility that he might, on some level, reciprocate, and hadn't _imagined_ that he'd act on that reciprocity—or at least, allow _her_ to act on it. _She's_ supposed to be the reckless one; he's the measured, controlled guy, the one who never says a word or makes a move until he's carefully considered every available option.

 _Then again,_ she thinks as she crests a hill and spots the cabin through the trees, _trying to maintain that level of control all the time has got to be exhausting. It's not surprising that he'd slip up eventually._

And so what if that slip-up had led to a brief make-out session that, _okay_ , had probably seemed more intense to Rook than it actually was due to the aforementioned head injury? Hope County is basically a pressure cooker at the moment, it would have been a foolish move to let weird shit _keep_ accumulating in her head, much better to just kiss the man and get it out of her system, so that's what she'd done.

Except it's _not_ out of her system. She can't stop _thinking_ about it. It's getting _annoying_.

She wonders if Jacob's experiencing a similar fixation. Probably not: she'd seen the look in his eyes after he'd nearly dropped her on her ass, and it scanned as outright _loathing_. (She hadn't thought she was _that_ bad at kissing, but folks had all kinds of different strokes, so who was she to say?) He'd been so eager to get her out of his sight he hadn't even taken her to task for that openly mocking little salute. He'd let her call him _Buttercup_. He must have been fucking _traumatized_ to let her get away with that without swift and merciless retaliation.

She stomps her way up the steps to the cabin and bellows "WHO'S A GOOD BOY" at Boomer, who's standing on the porch waiting for her, tail wagging ferociously. She grabs his front paws when he goes to jump up on her, kisses him on the top of his head, then drops him down and heads inside.

Jacob has made it clear—twice now—that he's not interested in pursuing anything else with her, and she'll respect that. She can't force herself to just _move on,_ she knows that, but she is _resolved_ on one point: she will _not_ let the incident between them make her change her behavior towards him. She's not going to avoid him, and she's also not going to be weird about what happened, because she doesn't need to give him another weapon to add to his arsenal of contempt for her, and she is _not_ going to give him the satisfaction of knowing he's gotten under her skin. As far as Jacob needs to know, she hasn't given their little encounter a second thought. Full stop.

If she wasn't in the Henbane region, where the Bliss in the water is much more concentrated than it is in the other areas of the county, and if she wasn't so beat, she might go fishing to get something for dinner—she's getting really good at cleaning and cooking fresh fish—but she ends up settling for a can of chili heated over the stove, which actually isn't too bad once she makes use of the spice cabinet to kick it up with some cumin, garlic powder, and cayenne pepper. She wolfs it down, realizing a little late that she hasn't eaten all day (and her week in Jacob's fucking cage still lurks at the corners of her mind, making her a little panicky when she's hungry now, which isn't ideal, given that she's so busy these days that she often doesn't remember to eat until she's already feeling the pain of it). She downs a can of fruit cocktail for dessert, a little more slowly now that she's starting to feel sated, then showers away the smoke and the stink of the day and heads for bed.

She sleeps hard and _dreams._ When she wakes, all she remembers of it is the vision of Jacob visiting her where she lay, sinking impossibly sharp teeth into her collarbone, and the blood running fast and heavily from the bite wound, soaking bright red into the sheets underneath her.

* * *

The next day, Jacob makes a move.

"They just took the fuckin' lumber mill back," Jess hisses over the radio, spitting mad. "Just walked in and _took_ it. We musta killed thirty of 'em and didn't even make a dent. _Should've_ stood our ground, but…"

"Yeah, I know," Rook says, making sure that her tone is almost flippant, because Jess won't tolerate outright sympathy, even when it's _fully_ warranted. "Memory of those cages hitting a little too close to home still, right?"

Jess snarls a little laugh by way of agreement. "Oh, and you'll never guess who headed the assault."

"Hit me."

"Jacob _fucken_ Seed himself."

Rook's heart does a weird little stutter, something that feels like fear. " _Really._ "

"Hand to God. Saw that ugly Freddie Kruger mug of his in the woods a second before the bullets started flyin'. He doesn't usually leave his little fortress up in the mountains; I wonder what's so important that he's gotta come see to it himself."

"Who _knows_ what he's up to. I swear he's not a man, he's twenty power moves in a trench coat. Is he still there?"

"Dunno. Didn't see him _leave_."

Rook sighs, feeling suddenly weary. "All right. I'll head up there within the hour, okay?"

"Don't try and do it yourself," Jess says fiercely. "Swing by the FANG Center; that's where we all are. Get some backup."

"I will," Rook promises. "Don't worry."

"Ain't worried."

"Well, good, then. Over and out."

Of course, given that she's heading up from the Henbane, Rook has a hard time keeping her word. She runs into the lumber mill _well_ before she's close to the FANG Center, and given that she's basically passing right by… well. She's got Boomer with her, and decides she might as well do a little recon before going on—check out the defenses at the mill, form a strategy before she goes in properly.

The place is better-equipped now than it was the first time she took it from the Peggies. More people, an extra alarm. She knows she should stay outside of the boundary, head on up to Jess and get some help before moving in, but sneaking around a Peggy outpost undetected is one of her favorite kinds of rush, and the temptation to do it now is _powerful_. She argues with herself for less than a minute before telling Boomer to _stay_ and moving in.

She knows the layout of the mill from last time. She sneaks behind a cult guy near the big wooden crate under the open window, climbs up in near silence, and enters the building.

She can hear men talking, moving throughout the building, and she creeps along the rooms and narrow hallways, trying to figure out guard rotations, gather information that'll help her when she comes back to take this place for real.

It's all going smoothly until she turns a corner and runs into a solid pair of legs.

There's a second of pure fear as the legs stumble back a bit, then she looks up and sees Jacob Seed's face, and the fear _spikes_ , and it's _thrilling_.

Jacob is looking down at her, his face twisted in an awful frown, and true to character, she says something ill-advised: "Is that a holster on your leg, or are you just— _shit,_ I'm not supposed to say stuff like that to you anymore, am I."

He freezes, and for a second she thinks it's because she's once again stepped over the line, but then she hears what he hears: clomping boots, footsteps drawing nearer. _Shit, time to get thrown to the wolves again,_ she thinks, but even as she turns back to Jacob, preparing to put up a fight that will doubtless prove futile, he's grabbing her by the shoulders, fingers digging in painfully as he hauls her upright. "You f—" she starts, ready to at _least_ give him an earful, but he slaps a heavy hand over her mouth and pushes into her, forcing her to back up reflexively, and he keeps coming, hustling her back through a nearby doorway. Then, with almost insulting efficiency, he puts an arm around her waist and flips her around so that her back is pressed against the wall next to the doorway.

His arm leaves her waist long enough for him to silently grip the open door and pull it around so it'll shield them from view, then he braces his forearm against her collarbone and leans into it, ensuring that she's not able to go anywhere.

Rook's spent a good month keeping her panic at bay. Every time it threatens to eat her up, she's lashed it back, tied it away in some dark unused part of her mind, all the while knowing that she'll have to reckon with it someday. Jacob's body pressing hers into the wall and his hand on her mouth make it hard to breathe, and she's not sure what he's doing and what his intentions are, and she's suddenly excruciatingly aware that she can't really move, and the tethers keeping her panic held back just _snap._

She starts squirming—he's holding her so tightly that there's very little wiggle room, but dead-weighting him works a little bit, buys her some room as she slides an inch down the wall—and makes a choked little noise against the press of his hand. He's too close for her to see much but his neck, which doesn't help matters, and quiet words reach her ears—"Shut _up_. Hold still"—but he may as well be speaking Aramaic for all the sense he's making to her right now. Belatedly, she realizes he's left her hands free; she makes a fist and punches him _hard_ in the ribs, twice in rapid succession.

He lets out a low, muffled grunt, pain or surprise, and the arm pinning her to the wall drops; he catches her fist just as she attempts to get a third hit in. Making use of the surge of adrenaline, she _throws_ her shoulders forward into him— _have to get free_ —and actually knocks him a step back. Her back's away from the wall and her struggles get more ferocious as she senses that freedom is in sight, but she can't extract herself from his grip. After taking a second to adjust and regain his balance, he moves against her again, pushing her back into the wall and winding her a bit, and if she was having a hard time breathing _before_ …

She's still got one hand free, and as an almost inaudible little whimper of distress trickles out of her, she paws blindly at his throat, trying to get to his face. He lifts his chin, keeping his eyes out of her reach, and she sinks her fingers into his beard, feeling hair and flesh accumulate under her nails as she gouges short lines into his jaw, thinking little beyond _escape escape can't breathe can't breathe_ _ **escape**_ _._

The pressure on her lessens, and he sidesteps. She makes an immediate bid for freedom, lurching in the opposite direction, but he yanks her back with the hand still clasped around her face and twists them both around. His back settles against the wall, he pulls her to him with her back to him, catching both her wrists in one big hand and crushing them against her chest. Even though he's close enough now that his beard scratches the shell of her ear, she can barely hear his voice when he says " _Stop_. Breathe. Calm the _fuck_ down."

Despite the fact that he's still got her restrained, she's not trapped between him and the wall anymore, and it… helps, her heart still hammering, the panic still buzzing in her head, but not quite so all-consuming. The words actually make it through to her, she finally manages to suck in a deep breath through her nose, and the relief of it almost knocks her out. The more she breathes, the calmer she gets, and he catches on to that, saying in that same almost-inaudible tone, "Good. Keep at it. Stay calm."

Between the open air on her face and his encouragement, she regains herself, slowly, and starts tuning back in—she hears voices, loud, not far from the open door. Peggies, having a conversation, evidently still unaware of who's holed up in the room a ways beyond, despite their brief struggle.

 _It's okay. I'm all right_ , she thinks—Jacob's insistence on being quiet still makes no sense, she can't think of any conceivable reason he might want to keep her hidden from _his_ people, but it's in her best interest to cooperate regardless. As her heartbeat slows she tries tentatively to pull a hand free from his grasp, but he just tightens his grip.

 _Well, all right, then._ She relaxes, since there's little else to do, and waits it out. He smells sweet like gun oil and bitter like smoke, and he's rigid at her back, breathing so quietly that she feels it in the motion of his chest more than hears it, and he waits, waits till the men pass by and the sound of their voices disappears. Then, slowly, he lets her go, freeing her hands first, then, when she doesn't go berserk on him again, he lifts his hand away from her mouth.

She steps away in silence, turns around so she can see him. He takes the door, twisting the knob so he can close it without a sound. As soon as it's shut, she hisses, "Why wouldn't you do that to _begin_ with?"

"They were too close. They would've noticed the door shutting right in front of them. What the hell was _that?_ "

 _Oh. Shit_. She doesn't want to talk about this. She ducks her head, checks her knife, pulling it from its sheath like it might have gone somewhere since she last thought about it, then sliding it back in abruptly. "Nothing. What? Nothing."

"Really. Cause it looked like claustrophobia."

"Oh, so you already know—good that you're wasting time asking, then."

"That a recent development?"

"Why, you want to add it to the torture rotation?" He says nothing, just waits, and she sighs, exasperated. " _No_. It's long-term. Has to do with having no breathing room _and_ knowing I can't get away if I want to. It's not even an issue most of the time, obviously I'm all right in choppers, _cages_ , whatever, but… I don't know. I didn't know what you were doing, you scared me, it flared up. So don't pull that shit again."

"Don't _make_ me, then."

She puts up a hand, palm to the ceiling, _you fucking serious_ , and he scoffs a little bit. She turns, glances around the room—it's windowless and dark, mostly, lit just by the blue light of a computer screen. She hops up to sit on the computer desk facing Jacob, willing herself to come off as casual as she wants to, despite the fact that _none_ of this feels casual and her heart is still racing a little.

"So what _is_ this about?" she asks, and when he just glances at her briefly, she mugs back at him, pulling an exaggeratedly clueless face. "Wouldn't exactly hurt _you_ if your men found me, so why bother to hide me from them? I'm tryin' to figure out a reason, but I can't."

"If they found you, they'd kill you. Or you'd kill them. Neither serves our purpose."

"Kay, so what now? You knock me out and lock me in a cage again?"

"No. It's not time for that."

She's determined not to let him see her relief at his answer, needling at him a little in order to cover it up. "Because Joseph says so?"

"Because _I_ say so."

She lets out a derisive little hiss. "So, what, you're just gonna let me go?"

"Maybe. If you can get outta here without drawing attention—or _killing_ anyone."

"Hey, this was just a recon mission to start with," she says, planting her hands on the desk on either side of her. "I was never going to kill anyone."

"Yeah, well, that's a first."

"I'd've thought you'd be _happy_. _Cull the herd_ , isn't that the little mantra you never give a fucking rest? If your people are weak enough for me to take them down, don't they deserve it?"

He grunts, doesn't bother giving her a real answer, and it gives her a chance to catch herself. _Stop picking a fight with a guy who's got at least four inches and fifty pounds on you, at least while you're trapped in a room alone with him._ Fortunately, he doesn't seem to be paying much attention to her. He stands by the door, head cocked a bit—listening, she thinks, making sure the coast stays clear, and in the blue light she can see something dark and wet shining in his beard.

 _Oh._ She sighs, runs a hand through her hair, and says, "Shit. I'm sorry."

He looks sideways at her like she's just said something crazy, an unspoken question in his expression. By way of reply, she just lifts her hand, points at his bloodied jaw. He reaches up, touches the scratches like he hasn't even noticed them, eyes his fingertips. "S'fine," he says, turning back to the door.

"I wasn't thinking. Didn't really process that I was hurting you."

"You didn't. It's fine."

She realizes that he's barely met her gaze since he let her go. Sure, it's not uncommon for him to hardly acknowledge her when they're in the same space, but before this it's always been part of whatever his training, brainwashing thing is, a demonstration that he's _above_ her, that she's not someone he feels he has to worry about, that he's in control. _This_ doesn't fall under _that_. The vibes are different, weirder. She narrows her eyes and, testing him, says, "Hey. Jacob."

If he keeps avoiding eye contact now, it'll be obvious that he's _trying_ to, and he's not the kind of guy to shy away from a challenge. He meets her, stare for stare, and says, " _What_."

She just watches him for a few seconds, trying to get a read on him, to interpret the weirdness. His face is twisted a little in something that she suspects is hatred, and it stings, and she feels like a fool for _letting_ it sting. She doesn't want him to hate her, especially since she suspects that _this_ is more personal than the sort of default hatred he seems to feel for the average person, but what the hell can she do about it? She's already taken her shot, and it didn't end well. She needs to _let this go_ before she does something else stupid, jeopardizes herself and the whole Resistance by playing with fire despite the clear warning signs.

To that end, she flings herself suddenly to her feet, seeing his eyes sharpen attentively, tracking her every move. "Okay, _well_ ," she says, and heads towards the door, "if we're _done_ here—"

Jacob reaches out before she can grab the doorknob, snags her by the elbow, jerks her bodily into him. She moves reflexively, bracing her hands against his chest in an effort to fend off the perceived attack, but an instant later, his mouth is on hers and she realized that she has _badly_ misread the situation.

 _Oh. Oh shit. Well,_ _ **yeah**_ _._ She immediately stops pushing at him, instead lifting her hands to either side of his neck, pulling him nearer. He backs her into the wall again, but it's different this time, no less dangerous, but in a different way. His hands fit against her ribcage, just below her breasts, fingers pressing hard enough into her that it hurts a bit, and she moans, quietly, into his mouth, the pain of his rough touch only contributing to the already-flowing adrenaline going straight to her head.

He kisses her _hard_ , like he's angry and taking it out on her, and with the warm slick of his tongue moving in her mouth her knees are suddenly _weak_ and her hands slip down to his shoulders, using them to do a better job staying upright. _Well,_ she thinks dizzily, _so much for this never happening again._

Once it's evident that she's not trying to pull away, he slows some. The pressure of his fingers lessens until his hands are just pressed up against her rather than actively gripping her, hot through her shirt. They don't wander, and she's not sure if she's relieved that he's not pushing her for more or if she wishes he _would_. For a second, she _hates_ him, hates him for willfully being a monster, for helping the cult advance their bullshit, because this—like the time before it, this is _good_ , and it's also totally unsustainable.

His radio crackles. "Jacob, you on?"

Jacob pulls away from her, but his hands don't leave her. He stares at her, the computer light casting an almost eerie glow to his eyes, as his subordinate goes on: "Heller's here with a new batch of potential Judges. Said you wanted to look at them personally before sending them on to the labs, can you confirm?"

Jacob leans forward abruptly, nips at the soft spot beneath her ear—startled, she gasps, fingers twisting into the edge of his jacket, _completely_ undecided as to whether to pull him closer or push him away—then he leans back, drops one hand to pick up his radio, still holding her in place with the other. "Yeah, confirmed. The recruiters've been slacking lately." _How can he sound so normal?_ Rook wonders. If _she_ tried to talk right now she'd be a mess of stammering and botched syllables. "Last batch had _three_ unsuitable candidates. Let 'em in, I'll be down in a minute."

"Ten-four."

Jacob puts his radio away, and the blatant reminder of what he does, what he's _doing_ … it should repulse Rook, it _does_ , but she can't seem to make herself push him away; the closest she gets is placing her hand on his bare forearm, feeling the silken knots of scar tissue slide beneath her fingertips as he moves. He seems in no hurry to go very far, either, standing very close with his head bowed over her—she can't force herself to look up and meet his eyes, staring instead at the dogtags hanging at his chest—and she hisses like he's hurt her when he slips his hand beneath her shirt, his warm, rough palm coming to rest against her navel.

"Maybe I _should_ take you now," he says, and his tone would be unbearably casual if not for the bit of gravel at the bottom of his voice that belies it. She's pretty sure he's just sounding out the thought, that there are no teeth behind the implicit threat, but still, she feels goosebumps forming along her arms, shudders in reaction to the creeping prickle at the back of her neck. She's very afraid, and very turned-on.

"That strike you as a good idea?" he prods, hunting for even more of a reaction. She still doesn't really trust herself to speak, and he's not very patient—he gives her just a few seconds before leaning in to speak directly into her ear, and her eyes slide shut in an unconscious reaction to the slow, pleasant growl of his voice. "You know… it's not desertion if you don't really have a _choice_. I could take you, one last time, and just… not let you go again. Hmm? Your conscience wouldn't have a goddamn thing on you that way."

 _Well, that is… quite a fucking proposal._

Of course, she's ninety percent sure he's fucking with her, doesn't mean a word he's saying, but on the off-chance he's not… sure, the suggestion scratches portions of her id, specifically the parts that are _very_ interested in fucking Jacob six ways to Sunday, parts that are more than a little whiny that she realistically will never get to indulge them, but they don't stand a chance at getting her to agree to this weird-ass kidnapping arrangement Jacob appears to be offering. There's too much else. There are people she _loves._ There's her own stubborn pride, completely unwilling to give up the fight before she's _won_ it. She's not going to cast that all aside just because some man she's foolishly into—her _enemy_ —is tempting her.

She's not going to say no outright, though, because her instincts are warning her that even if he's being totally insincere, she's still in danger, that she risks having the rug ripped out from under her if she doesn't tread carefully. Instead, she counters with an offer she's pretty sure he'll find as unsatisfactory as the one he just made her. "Desertion, huh?" she says softly. "There's an idea. Let's do that. I leave my people, you leave yours, we abandon this whole thing and get the _fuck_ out of this county. It's fair that way. We both give something up."

She feels the warmth of his breath on her ear, hears the scornful little hiss of laughter before he leans back and looks down at her, and she meets his eye, suddenly convinced that if she shows him weakness now, he will _lunge_ at it. "Ahh, you're full of shit."

 _Knew it._ A man like Jacob is always _testing_ people; she isn't at _all_ surprised to find that all this has been just another one, designed to prove some point of his. Of course, just _what_ that point is, she's not sure, so she asks, "I'm _sorry?_ "

"You've got no intentions of taking off with me. Whatever _this_ is—" his hand slides out from under her shirt so he can gesture between the two of them, leaving a sudden feeling of being _bereft_ that she does a good job of ignoring—"for you, you know damn well it's got an expiration date. The novelty of it—of being with a man twice your goddamn age, or someone who can overpower you, or someone who looks like they ran afoul of a woodchipper, _whatever_ it is that's got you sniffing around—it's gonna wear off, sooner or later, and you've got no intentions of being stuck with me once that happens, do you, darlin'?"

 _Huh_. She drops her gaze, frowning thoughtfully.

Her immediate reflex is to be mad at him for the _bullshit_ implication that he's some sort of sideshow attraction because he's got scars, but that impulse is swallowed up _fast_ by an abrupt sense of understanding. She doesn't know if he knows just how much about himself he's just revealed to her, but it's more than she's ever gotten from him before.

First, all that talk about her not wanting to get stuck, about an _expiration date_ —it tells her that his default is to think long-term, which is _interesting_ , because she'd never thought he'd want more from her than a fling, if it turned out that he wanted anything _at all_. She can't afford to read too much into it, but… there are more obvious reasons that something between them won't work than _you don't actually really like me_ , so the fact that he's raising that as a primary objection to her interest? There's an implication there, an unspoken _but I would be more open to all this if I believed you did._

Second—and this one is a bit of a doozy, considering how their professional relationship has basically broken down to him demeaning her, telling her she's not good enough—but the talk about him being so much older, the reference to his looks… it tells her _he_ doesn't think he's good enough for _her_ , at least as a romantic partner. She already knows he's got a bit of a complex, his nihilistic worldview of _we are all meat_ conflicting with his determination that _he_ is one of the strong, that he's useful, that he's _enlightened_ , but really? Even that _usefulness_ he sees in himself is predicated on his intentional lack of humanity, and if he sees himself as inhuman and ultimately insignificant, he's going to have a hard time seeing himself as desirable, especially by someone young and hale and moderately functional. Given that and their state of enmity, it makes sense that he thinks this is just a hate-crush, about as solid as smoke.

Which—even if that was the case, it _shouldn't matter_ to him. They're enemies. He shouldn't care what she thinks about him, or for what reason. The antagonistic, nearly _angry_ tone he's taking makes her think that on some level, maybe one he doesn't even know about yet, he _does_.

She doesn't want him to catch on to her train of thought, doesn't want him to get the opportunity to pull back, to overcorrect, so she takes a sideways approach to getting him where she wants him. Again, he's not the type of man to shy away from a challenge, so she tightens her grip on the edge of his jacket and says, slowly, "Okay. Let's just say, for the sake of discussion, that you're _not_ wrong about any of that."

He raises a cool eyebrow, waiting to see where she's going.

"Is that a dealbreaker? You done with me, with this?"

He stares at her, silent, for what feels like a long time after that. She gets the impression that he'd anticipated some pushback, an argument, and isn't totally sure what to do since she's offering him none. Then, his eyes narrow in distinct amusement, and he shrugs a little. "Nah. So long as we both know where we're coming from, I'm game to come along for the ride."

 _Okay_ , she thinks. _I can work with this._

She lets him think that he's got this in hand, that he knows what she's thinking. She needs to regroup, anyway. He doesn't know it, but he's just fired up the _contrariness_ in her nature that frequently proves one of her most powerful motivators, has just scrawled something on her to-do list for her, at the top, in permanent marker: _drag Jacob Seed out of this cult, kicking and screaming if necessary, just to show him beyond a shadow of a doubt that I'm not fucking around with him._

He lifts his hand from her, finally, and she carefully steps sideways, looking furtively at him to see if he plans on stopping her. He just watches, a smile in his eyes, confident and calm, and she knows she should catch the little grin she feels growing on her face before it gets too big and tips her hand, but _God, this is going to be fun._ He sees it, narrows his eyes, a little suspicious but unthreatened, and she knows she needs to wrap this up before she starts _laughing_ from the sudden sharp, giddy rush and really betrays her train of thought.

She points a pair of fingerguns at him and says, " _You_ need to get downstairs before people start to miss you, and _I_ need to get my ass outta this mill before anyone _else_ catches me."

"Go on, then," he says, his tone lazy but his eyes tracking her movements like he thinks she might be about to try to start a _real_ fight. _Maybe later._ "Try not to kill anyone on your way out."

She freezes, looking at him in wonder. "Was that a _joke_? Did you just _make a joke?_ "

"I have no clue why you would find that funny." The delivery is too deadpan to be an accident.

"And now a zinger! You're on a fucking roll." She edges to the door, listens, gently opens it to find that the corridor beyond is empty, for now. She looks back over at him—he's still watching her, implacable, and she winks at him. "See you around, Handsome," she promises, then slips out of the doorway, and a few seconds later, vaults out of the window, climbs to the ground, and heads in a crouch towards the tree line. She makes it without hearing any commotion behind her to signify that she's been noticed.

She shouldn't feel as good as she does.

Her skin is buzzing by the time she finds Boomer, and she's not sure if it's because of the light adrenaline rush, or if she's just feeling more cheerful than she has any reason to. Being involved with Jacob in _any_ way complicates her life; she should be _pissed_ at herself for re-opening that locked door (but _hell,_ it wasn't like she was getting much peace of mind with it _closed_ ). There's also the significant matter of Staci: this man has her partner in shambles and she needs to _do_ something about it. She's not sure if she'll have more success on that front now that her status with Jacob has evidently subtly changed, but she can't imagine she can have _less_ —so far, she's been at a standstill as far as her efforts towards Deputy Pratt go. If she's going to make nice with Jacob, it has _got_ to be with an eye towards securing Staci's freedom, and she _might_ have a better shot at it now.

She's _also_ going to have the unpleasant task of telling Jess that they need to skip taking back the lumber mill, at least for the time being—she's sure Jacob is going to beef up security temporarily in response to her presence, and she's also not keen on bringing her favorite squad of killers around while he's _there_. She doesn't want to paint a target on his head, now that she's decided she's _going_ to save him. Jess isn't going to be happy about losing the mill, but she'll get over it.

(She doesn't even want to _think_ about Jess's reaction if she finds out what Rook has done with Jacob, _twice_ now. That's a problem for _Future_ Rook.)

She reunites with Boomer and heads towards the FANG Center, humming softly as she goes.

* * *

 **A/N** \- shoutout to quietest for being the best/funniest conversational partner I could ask for and helping me talk nonsense and bitch about Jacob Seed as I wrote the draft for this story over the last month, you are truly the MVP.

Next chapter: ...oh, John.


	3. Hunting Party - 2

**Hunting Party**

 **2.**

It goes to shit sooner than Rook could have predicted: the very next time she sees Jacob, as a matter of fact.

It's a day or two later, and she's back in Holland Valley, engaging in one of her newest all-time favorite hobbies: pissing off John Seed. She'd borrowed Tulip with a solemn vow to Addy that she'd take excellent care of her baby, and had taken the chopper's guns to John's ugly-ass YES sign. John had thrown a shitfit about it, threatening her death over the radio. It was hilarious.

She's on the prowl for more ways to get under his skin when she spots a convoy heading south from the Whitetail Mountains, a familiar redhead in the driver's seat of one of the big trucks in the middle. She makes a few wide circles above them, long enough to establish that they're most likely headed to John Seed's ranch, then heads back to the marina to drop off Tulip. Then she grabs the red white and blue ATV she'd found on one of the _buckwild crazy_ Clutch Nixon runs scattered around the county and heads back to Holland Valley.

She keeps her distance from the ranch, using binoculars to confirm that the convoy is parked outside, then she settles in to wait.

A few hours go by, long enough for her to confirm that this isn't just a quick stop on Jacob's part. The sun sets. John Seed leaves his house alone, heads to his hangar, and a few moments later, his plane takes off. Rook packs her shit up and hustles to the ranch.

At this point, evading the notice of Peggy guards is second nature—she moves in their blind spots, killing none, working her way to the house. _I should take this place soon,_ she thinks as she goes along. _That would really wreck John's shit. Take all his stuff, his clothes, his planes—I think I might actually be able to make him cry. That would make Nick so happy, he might name his kid after me._

She's been here before, once, when she was getting Nick's plane back, so she remembers the floor plan pretty well, and she stealths her way to the second floor balcony, where the guest bedrooms are.

She checks the first one and gets nothing. Second one, the same. The third, she's barely pushed open the door, wincing as it creaks, before she's being hauled upright by her shoulders in a repeat of the _last_ time she met with Jacob. He pulls her deeper into the room, lets her go, and goes to close the door, as silently as he did last time.

"God _damn_ it," she swears, "why can I never get the drop on you?"

"You're not as good as you think you are," he says, quiet as always, and he goes to the window to close the curtains before he turns to her, scowling. "What in the _hell_ do you think you're doing here?"

"Saw y'all roll up earlier today. I had to come say hi."

Jacob stares at her for a moment. "That was you in the chopper."

It's not really a question, but she nods anyway. "Mm- _hmm_ , are _you_ the reason nobody shot at me?"

He doesn't answer, which she takes as answer in itself. She looks him over for a second. He's about as casual as she's ever seen him, barefooted, holster gone from his leg, jacket off, leaving just a gray t-shirt and jeans and the normal shit hanging around his neck. He looks like he might have been getting ready for bed. He's watching her with an expression that looks like an equal split between exasperation and amusement, the latter signaling that he's possibly in a slightly more tolerant mood than she's used to, and so she figures she can get away with pushing him a little bit. "I realized I've got questions I forgot last time I saw you, questions I probably shouldn't ask over the radio."

"Oh, yeah?" He glances to the side, rubs his mouth—she suspects he's hiding a smile, even if it's just a shitty, mean-spirited one. He saunters closer, and she doesn't get the chance to _ask_ her questions before his expression shifts into a frown—he glances over the tank top she's wearing under her unbuttoned denim shirt, catches hold of the hem, rubs it between thumb and forefinger, and looks back up at her with a cocked brow.

She raises her eyebrows defensively. " _O_ kay, Red, you know what? You've lived here for _way_ longer than I have, you can't bullshit me into believing you don't know _all_ about the Testy Festy. I don't want to talk about it."

His mouth twitches. The smile he's fighting back this time is _definitely_ mean-spirited. "You have fun?"

"I got _hammered_ and slingshotted all but the _last_ block of balloons before blacking out. I'll never know what I could have won and I'm bitter and I _said_ I don't want to _talk_ about it. _Questions_."

"What questions?" he asks, letting go of her shirt and folding his arms as he leans over her, fixing her with a look of exaggerated patience.

She narrows her eyes again and says, "What do I have to do to get you to let Staci go?"

He wasn't expecting that, she can see it in his eyes, though he plays it off pretty well. He stands up a little straighter, shifts his weight to his other foot, and says, " _Staci,_ huh? Yeah… that dog won't hunt, Dep. He's staying where he is—and he's lucky to be anywhere at _all_ after the stunt he pulled."

A little alarmed, she asks, "You're feeding him, right?"

"For now."

"What does _that_ mean?"

"Means what it means."

Obviously, she's not getting anywhere with this. "What if I offered to trade myself for him?" she asks, just to see how he'll react.

He raises an eyebrow. "Ah… no. Offer to just _take_ you's still on the table, though."

"Mm-hmm, I'll keep it in mind." _Shit._ She'd known the topic was a non-starter, but she'd opened it up anyway just to see how willing Jacob is to negotiate. The answer is apparently _not at all_ , which isn't great.

"Anything else?" Jacob prods.

 _All right, fine. Change of tactics._ If he's not willing to let her play fair, then she'll have to cheat. He wears the bunker key around his neck, after all. Can't be _that_ hard to just take it, especially if she can get him to let his guard down. Of course, Jacob's not the type to fall for a little bit of light flirting, will see right through her if she's just trying to jerk him around. Good thing she _means_ it.

"Okay, so…" She places her hands on her hips, cocking her elbows behind her back, and tilts her head conspiratorially towards him. "Am I allowed to hit on you again, or is that still a no-go?"

"I'd prefer it if you didn't."

She clicks her tongue. "Spoilsport."

"At least not publicly."

"Oh, come on, I barely ever _see_ you in private."

"Well. Make more of an effort."

She raises her eyebrows again, transparently delighted. "You telling me you want to see me more?"

"Don't fish, Dep."

"I'm not fishing. It's just _there_."

He lets out a little scoff, just barely an exhale. He glances away, then back. "You ever think it's funny how I don't even know your name?"

 _Nope, because that's how I plan on keeping it for everyone until this is over._ It helps that way, helps her distance who she was and the life she had before coming here from the things she's had to do since she tried arresting Joseph. She doesn't voice the thought, just widens her eyes playfully. "Oh, my god, we're just like Cinderella."

She's aiming to freak him out a little, comparing whatever's going on between them to a fairy tale, but he flips it on her so easily it makes her look like an amateur when he asks, "What's Cinderella?"

She tries to keep from reacting, flashing back to what she'd read about the Seeds in Joseph's book, how limited their media exposure was, at least throughout their childhood, but she's sure a little bit of her horror makes it to her face—doubly sure when Jacob Seed actually _laughs_ at her, a quiet sound, but unmistakable. _Oh, perfect. Now he's fucking with me._

She narrows her eyes. "Okay, don't do _that_ , it's creepy."

The low chuckle fades into a smile that looks alarmingly genuine, given that it's coming from _him_ , and he reaches up, lays a warm hand along the side of her neck. "Couldn't stay away, could you?"

Something _twists_ in her lower belly. She's not sure if it's a reaction to the smile or his touch. She ignores it, focuses on taking him down a peg or two, because he's starting to sound a little bit cocky and she can't have _that_. She's still glaring at him, but can't help but smile a little, rueful. "You _really_ think you've got me figured? What, that I've got some great big blind spot when it comes to you or something?"

"Mm." It's an affirmative sound. _God, he's infuriating._

" _Wrong_ ," she says, giving him a quick, ferocious grin that doesn't reach her eyes. "I'm seeing more clearly now than _ever_ , Jacob. You know? Suddenly, it's like… I know _exactly_ what I need to do."

He steps close enough to her that their chests touch, bares his teeth, like he's not entirely in control of himself. "And _what_ … exactly… do you need to do?"

She stares at him for what feels like a long time. He's so close, in easy reach. She has all her weapons on her. She feels electric, alive with the potential of the moment, with all the different choices she could make right now. She smiles even wider, and says, "It's a surprise."

His hand tightens on her neck, and he pulls her up to him to kiss her. It's a rough kiss, harsh, like a punishment, and in reaction, she feels a pulse of viciousness and her hands go to the lean edges of his waist, pressing into the flesh there until she feels bone, trying to mark him.

He pulls back abruptly, runs his fingers down the edge of her jaw. She can still see ruts in his beard where she scratched him a few days ago. She says, "Okay. I just wanted to check in. I should probably go before John gets back."

"Oh, John's been back for a _while._ "

She and Jacob turn in unison towards the source of the voice to see John himself, standing in the now-open doorway, looking at them like Christmas has come early. _Shit,_ is Rook's first thought, _how the hell did he sneak up on us, he's always so loud in those stupid boots of his,_ and then, immediately after: _oh, this is about the first time I've been in a room with John Seed without Peggies around to protect him. Lucky me._

She charges him, of _course_ she does, and he's busy quietly closing the door so he doesn't see her coming; she sucker-punches him in the jaw. As he reels back, she snatches at the bunker key around his neck, but even as off-guard as she's caught him, he grabs her hand before she can yank it from him and wrestles it back. Half a second later, Jacob's got both arms tight around her ribcage, lifting her off her feet and off his brother, and John, mostly recovered from the blow she dealt to him, gets his revenge, hitting her _hard_ in return while she's immobilized.

"You fucking _monster_ ," she swears as the pain explodes across her chest and Jacob turns around, putting himself between her and his brother before setting her back down; "you punched me in the _tit._ What is _wrong_ with you?!"

"Oh, I'm sorry," he says, deeply sarcastic, blood already shining in his beard where she split his lip. "I forgot to ask where you'd _prefer_ to be hit."

"You want another go at me?" she demands, and makes another attempt to get to him, but Jacob catches her again. "C'mon, fucker, let's _fight_. Winner gets Joey Hudson, _bitch!_ "

" _Wra-ath,_ " John sing-songs, taunting her, and it's effective; she makes a near-superhuman effort to break loose from Jacob's hold, and almost succeeds.

" _Stop_ it!" snarls Jacob, keeping his grip on her with some difficulty, then throwing her back again so hard that she almost loses her balance and falls back on the bed, recovering herself just in time. " _Enough!_ The two of you are like little _kids_ scrapping. _Grow up._ "

"I'll show you grown-up," Rook snaps at him as she emphatically gives John the finger. He sneers at her, but he's too busy checking his mouth for blood to return the gesture.

Jacob waits a second, making sure they're not about to try attacking one another again, but with John quieting down, Rook is able to get her anger under control, and besides, John had hit her _hard_ and now her left breast is aching something _fierce_ , making her less keen to start the scrap back up. Assured that they're staying in their respective places for the time being, Jacob turns to his little brother and growls, "What do you want?"

John's eyes go wide, innocent. " _Jacob,_ " he says, like he's wounded by the underlying accusation that he's going to be shitty about this, "I want what's best for _all_ of us. You know that."

"Cut the shit. What's it gonna take for you to keep your mouth shut?"

John smiles, but his eyes narrow, cutting briefly to Rook, and despite herself, she feels a slight chill. It strikes her now that she's in a room alone with two Seeds, with _both_ of them between her and the door, and even though she and Jacob seem to be negotiating some sort of _understanding_ , there's no guarantee that he won't turn on her in a second, especially if it somehow comes down to a choice between her and his brother. It's not a great position to be in, and, super-casually, she puts her hand on the grip of her gun.

"Lift that hand, Dep," Jacob says the second her fingers make contact, sending a warning glare in her direction. "Don't be a fucking idiot."

Grudgingly, she raises her hands, signaling that she's backing off. "Fine, but y'all try ganging up on me and I will lose my _shit_."

They both return their attention to John, who's radiating a particularly unbearable sense of self-righteous smugness. Rook rolls her eyes. "So, how long has _this_ been going on?" he starts conversationally, pointing from Jacob to Rook and back again. "I knew the Deputy was carrying a torch, but I have to say, Jacob, I'm surprised at _you_."

" _John_ ," growls Jacob.

"Joseph isn't going to be happy," John says thoughtfully.

" _Joseph_ isn't going to _find out_."

John raises his eyebrows. He plays shocked well, despite the fact that everyone in the room knows it's a bullshit act. "Oh, you don't think this is something he _might_ want to know about?"

Jacob stands perfectly still, staring at his brother, saying nothing. Rook hasn't really thought about how similar they look until now, watching them watch each other. After a few seconds, something passes between them that she doesn't quite understand, then John's shoulders loosen, and he smiles again.

"Well," he allows, "I believe we can discuss some options, figure this out. But first…" He turns his gaze on Rook, eyes shining with something weird and feverish that _looks_ like happiness but _isn't_ , and it's creepy as hell, so she gives him her best _fuck-off_ scowl. That just gets him smiling wider, and he looks back at Jacob. "I want the two of you to do something for me."

Uneasily, Rook also looks at Jacob, trying to figure out how to read this turn of events. His brow is furrowed slightly; he looks as wary and clueless as she feels, until he suddenly doesn't. She sees comprehension hit him, followed instantly by exasperation. " _No._ "

" _Yes_."

" _Fuck_ no. We've been over this already."

"That thing is your responsibility and you know it."

"Um?" Rook says, and is summarily ignored.

"You think I personally jammed Bliss down its craw till it lost its goddamn mind?"

"You're conveniently sidestepping the fact that these experiments were _your idea_ and are explicitly sanctioned _by you_."

"Guys?" she tries again.

"Just get some of your men on it; that's what they're _here_ for."

"Ahh, as much as I _truly_ hate to say it: _no_. I'm not losing any more people to that thing. _You're_ going to handle it. Take her, and _kill_ the fucking thing."

 _Okay, phrasing's getting alarming, I'm going in._ "John _,_ " she breaks in before Jacob can reply, "bring me into the loop. What the _hell_ are you talking about?"

The brothers are having an angry stare-off, so John doesn't bother to look at her as he answers. "About a week ago, a _creature_ escaped from one of Jacob's little _experimental facilities_ and headed straight this way. A moose. A _judge_. It has killed people and destroyed property, and _Jacob_ here is adamant that it's no concern of his."

"I've got too many things to worry about to bother with hunting your goddamn moose for you."

John's eyebrows lift in an innocent way that makes Rook suddenly sure Jacob just made a fatal misstep. "Oh, things to worry about—things like jamming your tongue down the Deputy's throat? I can see how that would keep you _very_ busy."

Jacob takes a step forward, pointing his finger threateningly in John's face. "I changed your _diapers_ , you little shit; keep talkin' to me like that and—"

 _O-kay, that's enough_. John hasn't budged, going by the smug look on his face he clearly has no intention of backing down, and as much as Rook would _dearly_ love to see Jacob beat the tar out of his baby brother, she's pretty sure that'll end any negotiations John's willing to have about this whole mess. No negotiations means Joseph finds out, Jacob will get in trouble, and best-case scenario, he's not allowed to see her again. ( _Worst_ -case scenario, Joseph encourages their connection, which would creep her out so much that it might kill the mood permanently.) From a practical standpoint, it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, but Rook's never been particularly practical when it comes to him.

So she wedges herself between them, the back of her shoulder pressed against Jacob's chest, bringing her hand up to push John back a step or two, because it's her opinion at this proximity that his cologne is too _fucking_ strong and she wants some breathing room. His eyes, still alight with that very particular gleam younger siblings get when they're torturing their older siblings—she knows it well—switch to her even as he lazily allows her to move him.

"Okay, John, _yes_ ," she tells him. "We'll do it."

"Like hell," Jacob rumbles behind her.

She tries _very_ hard not to roll her eyes. She _sort_ of manages. She feels her eyelashes flicker, is pretty sure that John, at least, can how done she is with Jacob right now. " _Fine_ ," she says. "Then _I'll_ do it alone, and you two can stay here hashing out your issues, which, by the way, _clearly_ run deeper than just the moose. God, I wish I'd never witnessed this. It _humanizes_ you both too much. I mean, next you'll be telling me Joseph used to pick his nose and eat it."

John is smirking, looking past her at Jacob. He doesn't have to speak to convey the dare: _go on, let her do it alone, see how well that sits with you_. Rook can _hear_ Jacob's teeth clenching when he finally says. " _Fine_. Let's go."

Rook's always known that John is the kind of guy who can't leave well enough alone. "Oh, but it's dark," he protests lightly. "There's no rush; the two of you can spend the night here and set out in the morning."

Jacob makes a noise that sounds alarmingly like a growl _,_ and Rook says, "John, he's gonna clock you if you keep going, and you _know_ I'm not going to try to stop him."

John's smile doesn't budge. "No? Ah, that's a shame," he says. "Oh, well. Sit tight. I'll go clear a path for the two of you to leave _undetected_ , since you don't seem very good at managing on your own."

He must know he's on _extremely_ thin ice with that line, because he's out the door almost before he's done speaking, quietly closing it behind him. Rook stays where she is for a moment, slowly exhaling. Being around John is a little like hanging out with the world's most tenacious youth pastor, if that youth pastor was also into whips and torturing small animals—she needs a second to recover from his energy.

"You shouldn't have given him what he wanted," Jacob says.

She turns to see him glaring at the door like he thinks if he does it hard enough he can set it on fire, but once she moves, he switches that glare to her. She raises her eyebrows, shakes her head, and says, "Oh, this is _not_ my fault."

"How do you figure?" he asks, heading to the bed and sitting down to put on his boots. "You're not even supposed to _be_ here."

"I'm never supposed to be _anywhere_ , so it all cancels out. I can be wherever I want. Anyway, _you_ kissed _me_."

"Yeah, that always ends up being a mistake, doesn't it," he mutters, glancing away from her as he stands to strap his leg holster into place.

" _Excuse_ me?"

"You heard me."

She narrows her eyes. "Okay, you know what? We're not gonna do this. We're gonna go kill this moose, it's _going_ to be easy, and it'll chill John the _hell_ out. You can either accept that we got caught and be a good sport about it _or_ you can sulk the whole time, and let me tell you from experience, life is better when you decide not to be a total bastard for no reason whatsoever."

Jacob chuckles, a bitter little sound, as he slides his jacket on. "Yeah, thanks for the advice, kid."

She wants to _scream_ , he is so _difficult_ , but John returns before she can give in to the powerful-yet-foolish impulse to call Jacob a condescending douchebag to his face. "All _right_ ," he says, clapping his hands together magnanimously, "coast is clear out the back. Head east to find the thing. Maybe a little bit south, _just_ … follow the general path of destruction and dismay." He pauses, glances between them, and then says, so earnestly that it has to be sarcasm: "Be _safe_ , you two."

Because Rook is annoyed with Jacob, and because she's starting to get the sense that John's weird hate boner for her isn't quite as powerful as his instinct to give his big brother a hard time whenever possible and she thinks he'll back her up, she says, "I was thinking we should say a little prayer before starting out."

John's eyes _light up_. "Yes!" he says at the same time Jacob gnashes out a resolute " _No._ "

"Yes," Rook says, giving John a real smile for probably the first time in her life. _Knew it._ "Just a quick one. I'll say it."

John reaches out to take her hand, and she lets him, but when they simultaneously reach for Jacob with their free hands, he recoils. " _No._ "

Rook had figured that might be a step too far, and she doesn't want him to go nuclear right before she has to spend an undetermined amount of time alone with him, so she reaches out instead, grabs John's other hand. "Fine. Not my problem you're cutting yourself out of the holy circle."

She bows her head and closes her eyes, hears Jacob mutter "Christ," but she and John are blocking the door and making an effort to escape would wreck that cool and aloof image Jacob likes to project, so he stays grudgingly put as she prays out loud.

"Dear Lord in heaven above, please bless us in this endeavor. Save the innocent and smite the wicked, unless we count as wicked in your eyes, in which case please have mercy because believe it or not at least _one_ of the three of us is doing their best, and also please keep John's hair perfect, and if you would maybe find it in your infinite grace to make sure Jacob doesn't crack a smile because I'm sure it would kill him at this point dear Lord and that would actually sort of upset me. Thank you in advance, amen."

" _Amen_ ," John repeats, giving her hands an emphatic little squeeze before releasing them.

Jacob, stone-faced, asks, "We done here?"

She steps aside and motions to the door. "After you."

He passes without looking at her, shoulder-checking John on his way out, but John's riding high and his obvious amusement doesn't falter one bit. Rook moves to follow, because _no_ part of her wants to be in a room alone with John Seed, even under the most ideal circumstances where she'd be beating the shit out of him, but he catches her by the arm as she tries to pass him, fingertips cutting into her flesh through her shirt. She stops, heaves a put-upon sigh, and waits.

He takes his time leaning in and speaking to her, his voice quiet and poisonous. "After this is finished, Deputy… we have _work_ to do, you and I. You will still confess. You'll still _atone_. I'm not done with you yet."

She lets him have his say, then she clasps _his_ shoulder, because two can play the power move game, and she smiles, a much less friendly smile than the last one he got from her. "We'll see. I'm coming to get Joey. _Soon._ Batten down the _fucking_ hatches, John."

His grip gentles, then he lets her go. She smacks him on the shoulder twice, a little too hard to be considered _friendly_ , then turns and goes after Jacob without wasting so much as another glance on him.

* * *

 **A/N** \- forgot to mention that I triangulated Rook's height based on the height of the various voice actors/whether in-game she's looking down on them, up at them, or right into their eyes. of course that's not helpful with Jacob given that he never lets you stand toe-to-toe with him but I figure we've got enough to go on.

next: calling Jacob Seed cantankerous is an understatement.


	4. Hunting Party - 3

**Hunting Party**

 **3.**

As the Deputy emerges from John's house behind him, Jacob thinks briefly about telling her to get lost, that he'll handle the problem on his own.

It's a juvenile thought, one he has no intention of following through on. Like most elements of nature, wild animals are unpredictable and prone to kicking one directly in the ass if they're underestimated, and that goes triple for one that's been turned Judge. He's pretty sure he can handle himself with this thing, but it's better to have backup just in case. Of course, he could take one of the dozen or so Chosen he'd brought with him, but doubtless the Deputy would see that as evidence that she'd gotten to him somehow. Best to just go through with it as agreed, even though it grates on him, handing John a win like this.

Speaking of John—he obviously said something to the Deputy after Jacob left the room, since she's a good fifteen-twenty seconds behind him, and when she glances at him, her eyes have lost the little shine they've held almost since she first met up with him this time around, are much more distant, like her head's somewhere else entirely. Even as she drops to a crouch immediately upon leaving the back way, heading for the shrubs along the path and hopping the low stone wall to take cover, he catches something automatic about the movements, like she's acting on instinct rather than thought.

He follows, after a fashion, less concerned with being quiet— _he's_ not the one who's not supposed to be here, after all—and not bothering with the plant cover. He just heads southeast through the ranch's property, doesn't see her maneuvering to follow unseen in the dark, but he hears her. Just barely, though: most people wouldn't. She's learned to be quiet, even on the forest floor in autumn.

After a while, he loses track of her. He's not particularly concerned, because this whole thing was her idea, and he doesn't think she'll flake on _him_. She'll be back.

Sure enough, after about five minutes, he's out of sight of John's guards, and Dep appears in the trees a few yards away, wearing a jacket now and carrying a compound bow she hadn't had at the ranch. It's a bright night, the moon well on its way to full, so he doesn't need another light source to get a good look at her. The heavier gear is a good idea—it's already in the forties and will get colder as the night wears on. The bow, maybe less so, because they're going to need to hit this thing _hard_ , but he's got his rifle, and if they manage to attack from a distance, it could work. At any rate, he sees her pistol in the holster on her leg. They've got options, so he keeps his silence.

So does the Deputy, for a long enough span of time that it makes him suspicious. She can be silent—she can be silent for _long_ periods of time, he's found throughout the course of his time observing her. It usually means she's plotting something. He falls behind her so he can keep a close eye on her, and once or twice she glances back, looks like she's about to say something, but each time she changes her mind. He leaves her be, a little caught up in his own thoughts.

He's giving himself hell for allowing himself to get caught, by _John_ of all people, in John's _house_. Uncovering secrets is where John excels; Jacob should have been _particularly_ careful in his territory, should've turned the Deputy right around and sent her away the second he caught her trying to sneak up on him.

He hadn't. He'd done the foolish thing and humored her. He'd _thought_ about sending her packing; hell, he'd thought about turning her over to _John_ , but he'd caught sight of that shine in her eyes, and she'd been so unabashedly pleased to see him that he'd held off for longer than he should have, couldn't resist messing with her a little bit. He thought after the last time he saw her that he had this whole situation in hand, but if he's making mistakes like _this_ , maybe he's wrong.

After the encounter at the waterfall, after catching up on some much-needed sleep, Jacob had reconsidered what had happened, looking at it with clearer eyes. Yes, associating with the Deputy on terms that weren't strictly hostile was a bad idea, but it didn't _have_ to be. John seemed to think he could use any attachment on her part against her, manipulate her into acting against her own self-interest. Jacob's experience with interpersonal relationships that aren't professional or familial is limited, to say the least, but manipulation… _that's_ something he knows a thing or two about.

He couldn't just do _nothing_ , that was clear to him—his first instinct, to pretend nothing had happened, was flawed, because something _had_ happened, and _she_ knew that, even if no one else did. After getting a little distance from the incident, he saw the cowardice in just _ignoring_ it. He had to get out in front of it, map out a direction for their interactions before she could try.

So the next time he'd seen her, he'd taken her measure. He'd tempted her, and been pleased with her response. She's stuck on him, all right (though for how long, he can't say), and he's decided to encourage it. Partially because she probably won't be trying to kill him as long as this lasts and that's an advantage he'd be a fool to waste. Partially because her attention is an interesting change of pace—she's a pretty young thing and he can think of worse ways to spend his time.

Only now John knows, and while this was his idea in the _first_ place and Jacob is mostly sure the threat to loop Joseph in is just an act for the Deputy's benefit (and to force Jacob to agree to take care of the moose), it's still not ideal. Jacob would prefer to keep this quiet, and with John, there's no telling what he'll decide to do, who he'll decide to tell. He needs to talk to his little brother, see where his head's at. He'd rather not.

He glances at the back of the Deputy's head as they move through the woods. Easiest thing would be to take her out here and now. No Deputy, no problem. She's not watching him like she should be. He wouldn't even have to use a weapon—he could just creep up, put one arm around her to hold her still, grab her by the jaw, twist _around_ and _up._ It'd be done before she even realized what was happening.

She grabs a low-hanging tree branch, pushes past it, then pauses, holding it out of the way, waiting for him to step forward and take it so it doesn't whip back and hit him in the face. He stands still for a second, considering—leaves it a little too long, because she glances up at him and says his name, quietly, questioningly.

He grabs the branch. She holds onto it, brow furrowed, still watching him.

"You good?" she asks.

"Worry 'bout yourself," he tells her.

The uncertain look lingers for a half second, but in a flash she's covering it up with a mischievous smile. "You are _vastly_ underestimating my capacity for worry if you don't think I have plenty to spare for the both of us."

She's so _certain_ she's charming him, and that certainty makes him want to smile. He narrows his eyes at her instead, and tugs at the branch. She laughs, quiet, and lets go, turning away.

Not long after, he hears something, and so does the Deputy; she freezes up and glances warily back at him. He pauses, listening. _Sounds like music._ Dep points up through the trees. He's already seen what she's indicating—the flickering light of a campfire.

They approach slowly, in near-silence, keeping a bit of distance from the point where the trees break. Jacob squats down, looking, listening, and Dep drops to one knee right beside him.

It's nothing, just a few people—a couple, dancing by the fire, while the other plays the guitar and sings an old country song. Probably Resistance, because they're not Faithful, and everybody in the county is one or the other nowadays.

Jacob lifts his rifle, and she instantly puts two fingers on the barrel and pushes it down again, giving him a _filthy_ look. "Don't," she says, so quietly that if she wasn't so close he wouldn't even hear her. "If you kill them, then I'll kill some of _your_ people, and that's just gonna start a never-ending revenge cycle that nobody wants."

He cracks a smirk. "Relax, Deputy," he drawls, matching her for volume. "Just jerkin' your chain."

She doesn't like that she finds that funny—she presses her lips together to keep from grinning, but he can still see it in her eyes. After a second, she says, "You're a sick S-O-B," but her tone makes it sound like a compliment.

She rises to her feet and retreats. Jacob eyes the resistance members for a moment longer, lifts a hand, fingers formed into a gun, and points at them. _One. Two. Three._

He straightens up, turns, and follows the Deputy back into the forest.

* * *

Rook finds the moose tracks about three miles east of the ranch. They've just left the cover of the woods, and out under the bright moonlight, she spots an uncovered stretch of ground, a place where the leaves don't reach.

She makes a beeline for it, crouching down, and sees the faint impressions. She gets the little Maglite from her belt so she can see better, confirm what she thinks and sure enough… it's just a print and a half, but it's something.

When she glances up again, Jacob's standing over her, and she should _really_ stop being startled by how quiet he can be. She nods down at the prints, keeping the flashlight steady.

"Yeah, I see them," he says.

"You _smell_ em?" she asks.

"Bliss?"

"Just a touch." She turns a little, still crouched, and then points the flashlight at the ground cover a few feet away, in the direction the prints are pointing—the leaves further on have been disturbed by something moving through. "What you want to bet they keep going on like that?"

"You doing a lot of tracking these days?" he asks instead of answering. His face is as expressionless as ever, but something about his tone makes her think he's teasing her again.

The answer is _yes_ —she's hunted more since she came to Hope County than she ever has in her life—but since he's intentionally being a little shit, she returns the favor. "Oh, I've always been a great tracker." She glances back up at him, flashing a grin. "I was an Eagle Scout, you know."

"Eagle Scouts is Boy Scouts," he points out, sounding flat and unimpressed.

"Oh, it's all the same thing these days." He raises an eyebrow, like he's not sure if she's fucking with him. "No, I'm serious," she says. "They decided to let girls in this year. About time, I say. Girls've been shafted into selling fucking _cookies_ and not learning anything _useful_ for decades."

"Well," Jacob says. "Isn't that something."

His tone is fairly neutral. It _might_ be a touch sarcastic. Rook rises to her feet and perches her hands on her hips. "You one of those guys who thinks boys are contaminated the second they have to work alongside girls?"

Jacob gives her a _look_ , says, "I am not getting into an argument with you about the Boy Scouts of America," then moves past her in the direction of the tracks.

"It's just _Scouts_ of America now," she says helpfully, but he doesn't take the bait. She grins and lets the topic lapse, jogging after him.

The tracks cross the little field they find themselves in and enter the woods on the other side. Jacob's taken the lead from her, and she yields it willingly, because her recent uptick in hunting and her luck in originally finding the tracks notwithstanding, she _knows_ he's a better tracker than she is, especially in the dark.

There's a question on Rook's mind, one that's been plaguing her since they left the ranch. She's held off on asking Jacob, because for a while there he seemed a little murderous— _the prayer, it was definitely the prayer that pushed him to the edge_ —and he's not anymore, but _now_ she doesn't want to bring that eerie intensity _back_.

She thinks she's doing a pretty good job of playing it cool, but she must be wrong, because as they ford a small stream—Rook hisses as the icy water soaks into her jeans—Jacob says, without looking back, "So. You got something you need to say to me, Deputy?"

 _Well. Since he's asking._

She waits till they're both on the other side of the stream before responding. "Just wondering what you think John's going to do now that he knows we're… you know." _She_ sure as hell doesn't know what they're doing, so she doesn't make an effort to elaborate, and Jacob doesn't force her to.

He doesn't really answer her directly, either. "You worried?" he asks instead.

"Kinda," she admits after a few more seconds.

"I don't see why. The two of you were getting along pretty well at the end there." If it was _anyone else_ saying this to her, she'd think it smacked of jealousy, that it was more accusation than statement, but Jacob has a way of saying things that comes across as completely unaffected. Even so, given the obvious sibling rivalry…

"John punched me in the _boob_ ," she reminds him, rubbing at her still-sore chest. He hadn't held back, either; she's _definitely_ going to bruise.

"You hit him first," Jacob says idly.

"Yeah, because he's the _worst_. Let me ask you, you think he knows his shirt has more than three buttons on it?"

Jacob laughs. He's facing away from her, but she _definitely_ hears it, a harsh little huff. He recovers almost immediately, but she's already wearing a shit-eating grin. "Was that a laugh?" When he doesn't answer, she presses him a little. "I know you like to _pretend_ you don't have a sense of humor, but you really should show it more often, because it's a pretty good one."

"You been hittin' the Bliss, Deputy? Cause you're hearing things that aren't there."

"You know, it's okay if you think me trash-talking your baby brother is funny."

"You know, not everything has to be a joke."

"Oh, right, well, excuse the hell outta me for trying to get whatever joy I can out of this absolute _shitshow_ ; I forgot that you—"

He stops abruptly, startling her out of finishing her remark. She nearly runs into his back, pulls up short as he turns around, and has to fight the urge to back up a few steps as he looms over her.

"That's just it, huh?" he says, voice deathly quiet. "You treat this like a goddamn game. You want to watch yourself. That attitude's gonna come around and bite you in the ass."

It doesn't take her long to go from surprised to angry. He's closer to her than she wants him to be given that he's currently pissing her off; she lifts a fist and braces it against his shoulder, pushing at him, but he doesn't budge, just stares at her, jaw tense and eyes challenging.

"It's a _coping mechanism,_ asshole," she snarls. "What, you think I'm not _extremely_ aware of what's happening every day in this county? You don't think I wake up most nights in cold sweats, wondering what it means that no one _outside_ of it has come looking for us?"

Jacob grabs her by the wrist, forces her hand off him and down between them instead, but she barely notices. She doesn't _talk_ about this, it's _part_ of how she copes, but now that he's goaded her into it, it's all rushing to the surface, and hell, _he asked for it._ "Your _fucking brother_ keeps taunting me about my use of violence, like he knows it's going to catch up to me eventually, and you know what? He's _right_. I have killed… _so_ many people over the last month. And, you know, I tell myself—them or me, right? Peggies _see_ me, they start shooting. So _fuck 'em_. And on a logical level, I'm fine. I can laugh about this whole ridiculous situation—because, let's be real, it _is_ ridiculous—and do what I have to, day in and day out, but…"

Jacob's still holding her wrist, watching her with something that could be curiosity, or could just as easily be condescension—she doesn't really care which. She lifts her free hand, presses her knuckles hard to her breastbone, and looks intently at him. "It's _going_ to catch up to me. I know it is. Maybe tomorrow, maybe years down the line, if I make it that long, but eventually I won't be able to keep it down anymore. The thought scares the shit out of me."

Admitting this to him (she hadn't _planned_ to, but Jacob, maybe because he himself tends towards reticence and it makes her feel contrary, frequently manages to get her to talk herself into trouble) drains what's left of the fight out of her. She relaxes all at once, closing her eyes and shaking her head. _Okay, enough._ "So, _sure,_ maybe I'm _weak_ for doing it, but trying to keep things light helps me fend off the, y'know, encroaching horror and dread. So maybe let me do what works for me, and you do what works for you, which is—I don't know—traumatizing more people so you're not alone, maybe?"

It takes another moment before he lets her go, lifting his fingers deliberately, one at a time, from her wrist. She's a little worried that her last remark crossed the line, but when he speaks, it's just to ask in a lightly conversational tone, "How long have you been sitting on all _that_?"

Honestly, Rook doesn't know anymore if he's fucking with her or being dead serious. Knowing him, it's some bizarre mixture of both. She keeps getting a feeling, a bad one, that he's putting her through her paces, saying things that he knows aren't true—or at least doesn't actually care about—just to test her reaction.

 _So quit being so damn_ _ **reactive**_ _._ She sighs, shakes her head, and says, "Probably a little too long," then turns away, moving past him towards a point up ahead where the stream they just crossed loops back around in front of them. Once she gets there, she crouches at the edge, sets her bow aside, and rinses her hands in the icy water, then puts the wet backs of her hands to her flushed cheeks.

Jacob follows just to stand nearby. She takes a steadying breath, then raises her eyes to his, pulling on a practiced, rascally smile. "Did you really used to change John's diapers?"

He grunts, glances through the trees, like he's checking for dangers hidden in the dark. "Someone had to."

"Yeah," she says, wrapping her arms around her knees, "but that strikes me as more of a _Joseph_ kinda job."

"We both looked after him. At that age, we both _had_ to pitch in."

She can imagine. No wonder they're still so close after the years Joseph said they'd spent apart; a childhood where two of the brothers had to work close to raise the other would have had quite the bonding effect for all three.

She thinks about the early passage of the book, where Joseph had mentioned—almost in passing—that Jacob had gone from merely hating their shitheel father to plotting his murder outright when their father turned his abuse to John. She's letting herself get into dangerous territory—she knows it—but she presses a still-warm cheek to the cold denim covering her knees and says, "Joseph said you used to steal candy for them."

Jacob goes still. She can see his profile pretty well in the moonlight—he doesn't look at her. He doesn't roll his eyes, but she swears he's radiating the exact same energy he would if he _had_. "You read his book," he says.

It's not a question, but Rook still lifts her head so she can nod. "You guys leave them lying around everywhere. Figured it was the smart thing to do."

He glances sideways at her. "Learn anything interesting?"

"It's an active cult leader's personal history and manifesto," she says honestly. "It was _all_ interesting. Why do I get the feeling you disapprove of it?"

For a moment, she's sure he'll dodge the question. He's silent for a good while, folds his arms across his chest, shifts his weight from one foot to the other, but apparently, she's not the only one who's been sitting on something that bothers her. At length, he answers, albeit obliquely. "Joseph's always been… _open_. You know, he'll tell anyone just about anything. It's not that he _can't_ keep quiet, it's that he doesn't often feel the need to."

Rook thinks back to the second time Jacob had sent his hunters after her, the time he'd stood watch while Joseph Seed knelt beside her, held her hand through the bars of her cage, looked deeply into her eyes, and _overshared_ , and she feels a shudder tickling at her spine. Jacob is _not_ wrong.

"In the end," Jacob continues slowly, "it's up to him, what he wants to tell everyone. He's got a feel for this kinda thing."

"But you're not comfortable with it," guesses Rook. He turns his head, gives her a narrow little look, and she shrugs. " _I_ wouldn't be."

"I'd feel better if he didn't put it all down on paper," he says, sounding a little grim. "There's some shit in there that could cause problems." He pauses a beat, then runs a palm over his hair and adds, "Guess it doesn't matter anymore."

 _Ah, right. Because you expect to win this._ She doesn't believe it's wise to open that can of worms, so she circles back around to a marginally safer topic, one she's been curious about since this all started. She puts her hands on her knees and as she stands, she asks, "What's the foundation for Eden's Gate, anyway?"

He looks at her then, not answering, a challenge in his eye that she knows by now to interpret as a request for more information. She obliges. "Religion-wise, I mean. The history it adheres to. In the book, your family—your dad, anyway—scanned as radical Christian, but Joseph never seemed all that committed to anything but _the Voice_. No talk of Jesus that I can recall. But he didn't make it all _up_ , or hear it all from the Voice or however you want to look at it; I can see things from other faiths, so…"

"Abrahamic faiths," Jacob specifies, quietly. "Not _all_ of any. Some of each. Mostly focused on where they agree. Joseph figures they were all wrong about some things, right about others." She tilts her head, and the glaring curiosity she's feeling must show on her face, because he acts the closest to uncomfortable she's ever seen him ( _including_ when she'd spilled her guts to him at the waterfall). He clears his throat, looks away again, and says, "You want more detail, you're gonna have to talk to Joseph. This isn't Sunday School."

"Are you saying that because you don't believe him?"

He turns fully towards her then, levels a hard stare at her. She doesn't back down. "I mean, I know you _love_ him, that's obvious. You're loyal, that's obvious, too—but _pious_?" She squints skeptically. "I don't really buy it."

"That right?"

"Mm," she says, nodding. "Faith, yeah, I see it in her. John? He might just be a really good actor, playing the zealot to keep his swanky position as herald, but my gut tells me he's sincere."

"Your gut, huh?"

"I don't get that from you," she says, steadfast despite the warning signs he's telegraphing—and maybe there's a bit of petulance to her pressing, annoyance that he'd gotten to her so easily, a desire to even the playing field between them again. "I get…" She pauses, glances up at the moonlit sky and thinks about it even as he takes a step closer, then another. "…less _spiritual warrior_ convinced that he's owed a seat in heaven. More like a guy who'll do anything, literally _anything_ to get his family to the place he thinks they belong."

He's close, now; she wouldn't be able to stretch out her arm fully without her hand running into him. Her heartbeat picks up a bit; she's acutely aware that her bow is on the bank of the stream behind her, but her pistol is cold against her leg, in easy reach should he make a false move. She tilts her chin up so she can look at his eyes, which reflect pinpricks of moonlight back at her. "Tell me I'm wrong."

She realizes, after a beat of silence, that he doesn't look angry. If anything, he looks thoughtful, but she keeps her guard up, unwilling to get lulled into a false sense of security. "I don't know if God talks to Joseph," he says eventually, in his standard soft tones. "I couldn't even tell you if there _is_ a God. The way I see it, it doesn't matter. Joseph's right. This world is on its way to hell—and I don't care if you want to take that literally or not, it ends the same either way."

"Really. How's that?"

"Burning," he says, so simply that it gives her chills, despite her best efforts to stay unaffected.

He lets that sit in the space between them for a little stretch, giving her plenty of room to interject, but she has nothing to say to that, at least not immediately, and she suspects he knows it. After a moment, he moves properly into her personal space, his body just inches away now, and she drops her gaze to the ground, shying away even as she hates herself for letting him see how jumpy he makes her.

She doesn't have to be looking at him to tell that he's bending over her; she can feel it in the way the temperature of the air in front of her rises a few degrees, hear it in the sound of his voice—when he speaks, it's close enough to make her flinch. "You know it too, don't you? You say you're waking up in the middle of the night, afraid. Why is that, do you think?"

When she doesn't answer, she feels his soft, humorless huff of laughter stirring strands of her hair. "Ah… yeah. _You_ know. You know it's because whatever's going on out there, it's big enough to overshadow a US Marshal gone AWOL, a few missing deputies. Public attention's fickle on a good day, sure, but rumors of new _violent cult shit_? That _guarantees_ headlines; the press should be all _over_ this. More than that: some of you've got families. I don't know about you, but Whitehorse does. _Peaches_ does. Why haven't they raised a fuss with your department?"

Gaze still trained on the ground, she says, "Fuckin' Nancy, I assume."

He laughs again, though this one sounds a touch more amused. "Oh, she was set to run interference for a few days—didn't think it would take longer than that to wrap things up with you all—but we're long past that now. By now, if no one's come sniffin' around? It's because they're all too busy worrying about something _else_."

He's making a terrible sort of sense, and Rook deeply regrets spilling _any_ of her anxieties to him, let alone _that_ one, because he's gotten straight to the heart of it. She should've known he would—and maybe she _did_ know; maybe in some masochistic way, she wanted his opinion on why things are playing out the way they are.

 _Well, I've sure got it now. Along with plenty more nightmare fuel._

She's suddenly terrified that if she keeps avoiding his stares, he'll keep talking, will keep telling her awful, worrisome things that she'll never be able to get out of her mind, so with some difficulty, she lifts her head again, meets his eyes. She's startled when instead of the malice she expects to find there, she sees… the closest thing to _sympathy_ she's ever seen on Jacob Seed's face.

He's standing _so_ close. Low, steadily, he says, "You know we have a place for you."

Her breath leaves her in a soft, stuttering little sound, a little like a laugh, but shakier. Intent, Jacob tilts his head a little, his eyes never leaving hers. "He'll still forgive you," he says, and then after a few more seconds of weighted silence: "We _can_ keep you safe from what's coming."

 _What am I even supposed to say to that?_

Rook would be lying if she said she wasn't tempted. Truth be told, she's _more_ tempted than she's ever been, because not only is this coming from _Jacob_ —the Seed who she trusts most to tell her more of the truth, at least, over all of the others—but also because he's put his thumb directly on a _powerful_ fear she's been refusing to look at head-on and is offering her a way to counter it. She doesn't like to admit it, even to herself, but he's _right_ : she and her colleagues and Burke disappearing into Hope County a _month_ ago with no word from any of them since? It should have caused a stir. She doesn't know about Burke, but Whitehorse and Staci have family, Joey has a sister, Rook has family. People should have come looking. Hell, Burke is _Federal_ —the US Government should have been kicking the cult's door down in less than twenty-four hours.

Whatever's happening out there… it's almost certainly not good.

But there's _so much_ she doesn't know. She knows John, at least, has some influence outside of the cult—maybe he's woven a web of lies, spread the word that she and her colleagues are dead, somehow made sure the warrant for Joseph got buried. Maybe people _have_ come looking for them—the cult's everywhere, maybe any intruders were just hastily killed and hidden away. Rook would have no way of knowing. There are people in the county that depend on her; she can't just lay down her weapons and walk into the cult's open arms just because she's anxious about Joseph _maybe_ being right.

Still. Looking at Jacob, she can see he _does_ really believe, certainly in Joseph, if not in any real Divinity, and the reminder that they want her to join them, it's… she wouldn't have expected it from him. She knows it's a manipulation tactic, she _knows_ that, but also, given that she believes that _he_ believes that everyone outside of Eden's Gate is in real danger, it also strikes her as a kindness, one from a man not accustomed to extending them.

She moves before she can really think it through, lifts a hand to rest her fingertips at Jacob's collar—he doesn't react, doesn't move to stop her, just keeps watching her—and leans up to kiss him, chastely, softly.

He's very still as she pulls back. She tells him "Thank you," and means it. She says, "But as long as you all are killing and abducting people, taking their homes and possessions when they want nothing to do with you, I can't give this up. If you want to negotiate a ceasefire, a _real_ one, then believe me, I'm all ears—but if you keep using force, _I_ keep using force. You know that."

He nods, and his eyes are distant. She thinks that's the end of it, turns around and takes a few steps away from him to retrieve her bow, then he speaks. "You're a goddamn fool."

It's the dispassionate way he says it that gets under her skin, and her thoughts about not being reactive go out the window. She turns, flashing a sharp warning grin, and says, "Come again?"

"You heard me," he says steadily. She heads back towards him, because apparently they're _not_ done, and he continues, tracking her with his eyes. "You got a way out, offered to you on a silver platter—the _only_ way out that doesn't end with you cold in a shallow grave somewhere, if you make it to a grave _at all_ —and you're turning your nose up at it. Offer won't last forever, you know. Take it now, while Joseph's still convinced that you're just another one of his children, instead of a pain in the ass that needs to be taken out."

She's furious— _how can he be this blind_ —so her tone is openly, bitterly cruel when she says, "Yeah, thanks, but no thanks; Joseph's already told me what he does to his children."

Jacob's face twists—subtly, as soon as it's there it's gone, but she sees pain, and anger—then he lifts his arm and hits her across the face.

It's not bad. The average Peggy hits her much harder than this on a daily basis—this is just an open-handed slap across the mouth, less than she'd expect from him, but it's the _delivery_ that rankles, like he's punishing a misbehaving puppy. She looks at him, eyes huge with disbelief, lifting her fingers to the corner of her mouth where he made contact.

A split second later, she _kamikazes_ him.

He's expecting it, he _had_ to have been after a _bullshit_ move like that, but he's clearly not accounting for her anger—even as he brings his hands up to block her, she's slamming into him with her full weight, and because she's aiming _extra_ high, she succeeds in throwing off his center of gravity and knocking him over. He hits the ground hard beneath her, and she drags herself upright with one leg on either side of him and _whales_ on him for a second—not aiming for his head or his face, she's not _that_ far gone, but she gets a few solid thumps in to his chest and stomach before he recovers from the unexpected fall and surges beneath her. Her position is precarious to begin with, and he catches an incoming fist at the same time he lifts and twists his body, knocking her to the side.

She tries to twist around, slip her hand out of his grip, but his fist is like iron and he twists her wrist until she cries out in pain, and in short order he's got half her face pressed into the cold dirt of the creek bank.

She writhes a little, trying to find a way to slip out of his grip without also dislocating her shoulder, but most moves result in instant, sharp pain and the ones that don't aren't useful in the _least_ bit, so eventually, she stops moving, though it irks her to have to yield. For a few seconds, there's nothing but the sound of both of them, breathing hard, and then, he asks, "You done?"

His voice is even, as calm as ever, but his heavy breathing belies it, and Rook feels a flare of smug satisfaction. "Yes," she says grudgingly.

"You sure?"

" _Jacob!_ Get _off_ of me!"

He holds her down for another second or two, and then, suddenly, the pressure's gone. She scrambles immediately to her feet, spinning in case she's about to have to face another attack. He's standing, close, and as she watches him warily, he exhales a long breath through his nostrils, like he's trying to get control of himself, then he steps a little nearer and holds a warning finger up to her face.

"You come after me like that again," he says, "and I swear to God, you'll wake up in a cage, you hear me?"

She has to fight the considerable urge to swat his finger away, only manages to resist because she's pretty sure that if she does, she'll end up with her face in the dirt again, at best. She bares her teeth instead and replies, "Then don't fucking _hit_ me."

"Then watch your fucking mouth."

There's a tense moment as they both catch their breath, but she doesn't say anything. She doesn't think Joseph deserves it, this delicate approach to the monstrosity he's committed, but against her own will, she can understand where Jacob's coming from, how the mention of what happened to his niece might still be a little tender, even for someone who plays it as unaffected as he does. After a few seconds, he drops his hand again and turns away.

"Come on," he says over his shoulder. "We've still got work to do."

* * *

 **A/N** \- next up: boss fight boss fight boss fight!


	5. Hunting Party - 4

**Minor CW** for this chapter- drug use (Bliss) and some dubcon-ish thoughts on Jacob's part. nothing that I'd expect to be particularly triggering but forewarned is forearmed.

* * *

 **Hunting Party**

 **4.**

They're both silent for a long time after the brief altercation at the creek bank, and that suits Jacob just fine. Things had been getting much too chatty for his comfort, anyway, which is why he'd intentionally instigated the little scrap, in hopes that it would put the familiar wall up between them, a wall that had somehow deteriorated over the course of the night.

The way she'd kissed him had thrown him off a bit, even if he has no intentions of showing it or admitting it. He wasn't sure if anyone had ever done that before—kissed him in such a way that he didn't feel like they _wanted_ something from him. It was strange territory. He'd been eager to get back to something more familiar.

This, the tense silence—this is familiar.

He focuses on tracking the creature through the woods. At a certain point, it turned north again, which makes sense—the initial signs of it are so far from any roads or homes that it probably would have never turned out to be a problem, had it stayed put.

Dep keeps up, doesn't make much noise, doesn't ask any more questions. She's not the worst backup he's ever had, even if he's positive there's a significant portion of her that wants to see his ass dead.

They've gone about a total of five miles when they run into a black bear. Jacob spots the huge shape moving in the dark right around the time the Deputy's hand closes urgently around his wrist.

"I see it," he says, his voice so low he's not sure if she can even hear him.

The bear is a dozen yards away, and doesn't seem to have spotted them, but that could change any second. They could kill it, probably pretty easily, but the gunfire would draw attention, and Jacob wants to do this thing _quietly._

Dep tugs on his wrist. He turns to look at her, and she points to the left, where he sees a tree stand about ten feet downhill from them. _Not a bad idea_. The bear can climb, obviously, but if they can get up there without it noticing… he twists his arm around so she loses her grip on him, grabs her now-free hand, and moves as quietly and quickly as possible towards the tree stand—he doesn't have to pull her, she's right there with him, but he holds onto her anyway. Once they reach the ladder, he guides her hand up, up to a rung before letting it go, and that's all she needs. She's clambering up the ladder in an instant, Jacob right behind her.

As soon as he's secure on the platform, he turns, seeking out the bear again. It's nearer, and probably knows they're there, but doesn't appear to have taken much notice of them—it's ambling along the forest floor, snuffling at the leaves, in no hurry at all. Jacob lifts his rifle, trailing it on the bear, just in case, though he's starting to doubt he'll have to use it.

The Deputy, crouched behind him, absently rests her hand on the center of his back as she peers over his shoulder, watching. He can feel the warmth of her even through his jacket.

The bear takes a long time to leave the area. Even after it's out of sight, they don't move for a while, staying put in the tree stand, waiting to make sure it's not coming back.

"Okay," Jacob says eventually. "Let's go. Can't be much further now."

"Not worried Baloo might have friends?"

"What the hell are you—" he starts, then his foot misses the ladder rung, and he falls from the tree stand.

" _Jacob!_ " He has just enough time to think that he's _never_ heard her sound that scared, not even after he'd fucking _abducted_ her, then he lands hard on his back on the ground below.

It's not as bad as it could be. The ladder is on the hill side of the stand, so it's only about an eight-foot fall, and it's early October, so there are a lot of dead leaves on the ground to soften the impact. Still, it knocks the wind out of him pretty good.

Dep hits the ground about two seconds after he does—she'd jumped rather than take the time to climb down the ladder—and she doesn't try to stick the landing, falling to her knees beside him right away. "Jacob," she says, sounding panicked, reaching for him and then jerking her hands back like she's afraid that touching him might somehow make it worse. "Jacob."

He closes his eyes and frowns and lifts his hand, holding up an index finger: _just a second_. His diaphragm is half crushed and he can't really say anything at the moment. Just that little motion seems to soothe her worry somewhat—she quits talking, and he can just hear her shaky breathing.

He manages to pull in one breath, and after that, it gets easier. After maybe a minute, he asks, as casually as he can manage, "How old are you, Dep?"

"How… _old_ am I?" She sounds baffled. He just waits, eyes still closed, and finally, she says, "I'm twenty-five."

"Ah." He chuckles quietly. The sound is still a bit strained. "Well. Enjoy it. Everything'll get worse with each year that passes from now on. Hangovers hurt more. Your joints deteriorate. Falling out of a tree stand is… fucking terrible."

She laughs. The sound of her relief is sharp and clear; Jacob can feel the buzz of it in his bones. He opens his eyes again as she takes his hand and tugs on it. "Here, let me help you up."

"Just… give me a minute." He's pretty sure nothing's broken or twisted, but he's still a little winded, and he's not too big to admit he's not in a rush to get back on the move, at least not till he gets his breath back.

Dep gets her feet under her, though she stays crouched and doesn't let go of his hand. "That's okay, I gotchya. I saw this in a movie once." She reaches for his shoulder and he realizes, with a sudden flare of alarm, that she's going to try to lift him, get him in a fireman's carry.

He's pretty sure she's just teasing him, but she has a tendency to take jokes too far and he is not willing to bet that she'll curb herself in time. "If you try to pick me up," he barks, his voice rough, "it will be the _last thing you do_."

She laughs again and gives up the pretense. Before he quite knows what's happening, she's lying down in the leaves beside him, her arm across his shoulders, where it won't aggravate the more battered parts of him, and her body warm against his side. She rests her face in the side of his neck. Her nose is cold.

"I won't tell anyone you fell out of a tree stand," she mumbles against his skin.

"Appreciate it," he grunts, more than a little sarcastic.

They should be moving. These woods are unsafe, especially at night. This job is taking too long as it is. The tension from the little tussle earlier is completely gone. He should get up, put some distance between them, figuratively and physically, but—probably because of the hit he'd taken—he doesn't really care what he _should_ do right now. He stays put, even lifts his hand to close it around her wrist. Might feel to her like he's holding her in place.

She lifts her face, just a little, so she can talk quietly close to his ear. "I've been thinking about the Biblical Jacob. You were named for him, right?"

He grunts, a half-assed affirmation in response to her question. He and his brothers were all named for Biblical figures. He doesn't think about it that much.

"Yeah," she continues, "I was thinking about the bit where he spent a whole night just… wrasslin' an angel. The Angel of the Lord, if the Protestants are right. The _whole_ night. We all knew he was a stubborn jackass, working seven years, then seven more just to get the woman he wanted as a wife, but grabbing hold of the Angel of the Lord and _refusing_ to let him go, even with a bum hip? That's gumption."

He can see patches of blue-black sky through the trees. They're far enough from any unnatural light source that stars, tons of them, are clearly visible. "What are you trying to say?"

She laughs softly. "Nothing. It's just what I was thinking about."

"You Christian?"

"Raised that way."

"But not anymore." It's a question voiced like a statement.

She's silent for a long time, enough that he thinks she's not going to bother answering. Eventually, very quietly, she says, "I'd like to be."

Jacob doesn't have a difficult time filling in the gaps of what she's leaving unsaid. She probably thinks she doesn't deserve the sort of grace religion offers. She'd revealed a lot of herself earlier during her little outburst, more than she'd meant to—he could see it in her face. If he had to guess, he'd say she'd never killed a person before she came to the county, and now? Dozens are dead at her hand, each one by a more creatively brutal means.

She's choking on her own guilt, ignoring the buildup of trauma (until one day, she won't be able to anymore). He hasn't gone through exactly the same thing—Jacob believes that although he didn't kill anybody till he was eighteen, in his heart, he's always been a killer, even as a child, constantly having to grapple with the rage and violence that lived in him so he didn't end up in a psych ward somewhere, completely neutered by drugs. He's seen it in others, though, watched fresh-faced rookies in his unit spin slowly out of control as the pressure got harder and harder to handle.

She's certainly under pressure, so of course, she's acting out, starting a self-destructive pattern, just like all the rest. Some people do drugs, some smoke, some drink. Some kill _more_ people, building up the callus, hoping it'll help. The _Deputy_ , well—she drapes her arms around the man who's kidnapped and starved and brainwashed her. He feels something tugging low in his gut at the thought. His hand tightens on her wrist, and she draws a quick little breath and presses _closer_.

 _Dangerous._ He could just roll over, cover her body with his, pin her wrists hard to the forest floor above her head. He could _take_ her right here, right now, and the easy possibility of it is making him feel a little lightheaded. He's almost relieved when he hears it, a harsh, awful sound—a moose, screaming, some distance away.

He lets the Deputy go and sits up abruptly—she's moving in unison with him, meets his eye when he glances at her in a silent question. She shrugs, though she looks wary, and gets to her feet, dusting leaves off of her clothes.

Jacob takes a little longer getting up, moving slowly, waiting for any stabbing pains that might indicate that the fall had hurt him worse than he'd guessed, but no, everything's working fine, if all a little banged up. By the time he gets on his feet, Dep has retrieved his rifle, which had gone flying around the same time Jacob had. She holds it out it to him, he takes it, and then she hauls ass up the ladder again, reaching up onto the platform with one smooth move to grab her bow, then jumps back down to the forest floor.

He tilts his head in the rough direction the moose call had come from. She moves past him to take the lead, and he falls in step behind her, and if keeping up with her quick pace leaves his battered lungs feeling a little strained, he's not about to say so.

He smells the Bliss a little before he feels it, that over-sweet vanilla-and-blossoms odor. It's not long before the little starbursts of white light start appearing in the air, and he glances at the Deputy to find her looking back at him with heavy-lidded eyes.

"Well, shit," she says lazily, no fear or urgency in her tone.

He agrees. He knew it was coming, but being Bliss-addled will make this fight that much harder. Still, the Bliss is already intense enough that he doesn't care, and isn't worried. He knows that once the Bliss is out of his system, he'll hate that it got to him in the first place—he fucking hates what it does to him—but he's not worried about that right now, either.

"You ever done this before?" Rook asks him.

 _What, hunted?_ he thinks.

"Hunted a fucked-up Judge creature," she says, and fuck, he hadn't meant to say that out loud.

She laughs, looks slyly at him over her shoulder. "Your Bliss tolerance is dogshit," she tells him, sounding delighted, and he guesses he was talking without meaning to again. "Mine, on the other hand," she continues, leading him uphill, "is—I think—halfway to decent, given that your sweet sister doses me constantly while I'm in her region. You need to tell her to cut that shit out. I think my kidneys are starting to fail." She doesn't sound particularly concerned by the idea.

"I try to limit my exposure," Jacob says, the words falling more easily from his tongue than words usually do. "I don't like the way it makes me feel." He realizes even as he says this that it's a lie, of _course_ he likes this. The relentless press of things to do, the never-ending grimness he carries along with the knowledge that the world is ending _soon_ , the achiness in his torso from the fall—they're all gone. It's all a lie, he knows, they'll be back the second he's Bliss-free, but for now, he's free of pain and worry. How could he _not_ like it?

Rook laughs, a hearty, wicked sound, and the warmth he feels building in his chest in response to it surprises him a little. When did he start _liking_ the sound of her laugh? He doesn't remember. "Oh, you are gonna be high as _fuck!_ "

The moose calls again, nearer. _Right._ He shakes his head a little bit, trying to clear the sparkles from his field of vision, just ends up stirring up more. Rook spins around so abruptly he bumps into her. She laughs again, one hand lifting and her fingertips brushing his forearm. She doesn't recoil from the gnarled and pitted scars riddling his skin, doesn't seem put off at all. Must be the Bliss, playing tricks on her.

"Listen. I _have_ fought one of these things. A cougar, in the Henbane. The Bliss makes it weird."

Her hair catches the moonlight, drawing his eye. Before he can even think about it, he's caught a thick strand between his thumb and two fingers, letting it slide through them like ribbon. Then he does it again, because he hasn't felt anything that soft in… he doesn't know if he's _ever_ felt anything that soft.

"Stop that," she says, but she's laughing again and she doesn't swat his hand away and he doesn't think she really wants him to. " _Listen._ "

"I'm listening," he replies mildly.

"The Bliss makes it weird," she repeats. "Like… it was a cougar, but it was also _six_ cougars, and it was also a bear, and other things."

"Other things," he repeats.

"Other predators." The moose bays, and the sound is close. She turns, frowning, her hair slipping out of his grasp as she moves, then she looks back, squeezing his arm emphatically. "If they surround us, we gotta work back to back," she says. "I don't want to take the chance that the Bliss will turn us against each other. I don't want to shoot you."

"Yeah, I don't want to shoot you, either."

She grins at him, bright, practically glowing. He doesn't care that he's going to regret telling her that later. It's the truth, anyway. He hasn't wanted to shoot her for a long time now. Doesn't necessarily mean he doesn't want to _hurt_ her. "Right," she says, "good, agreed. Once it _starts_ getting weird, we put our backs together. Fight it that way. Okay?"

"Yes, ma'am," he says, just to fuck with her a little, and it pays off. Her grip on his arm tightens, her stare sharpens, and for a second, he could swear she's going to jump his bones then and there, moose be damned.

She doesn't, though. He sees her close her eyes, she swallows, and then shakes her head, like she's trying to recover from a glancing blow. After that, she drops his arm, turns away, and mutters, "Let's go."

 _Oh, she likes that, huh?_

 _Good to know._

He follows after her. Shortly afterwards, they find the moose.

It's a big, ugly thing, clouds of green coming off it in puffs. Its eyes glow red, a less pleasant side effect of the Bliss. It sees them, lets out an enraged roar, and turns its body in their direction, striking the ground threateningly with a hoof.

Rook moves fast. One second, she's just standing beside him, the next, she's loosing an arrow he hadn't even seen her draw. It hits the moose's shoulder, then, as the thing screams in rage and starts to charge them, Jacob is taking aim directly between its eyes. He fires.

It hits. He sees the impact. The moose barely stumbles, keeps coming, then Rook collides with him and knocks him to the side as it thunders past, trying to swipe at them with its antlers.

He whirls, drops to one knee, takes aim again. Another arrow goes flying, hitting the moose in its haunches, and as it slows and wheels around, Jacob fires once more. The bullet hits the thing in the shoulder. He thinks. Kind of hard to tell, since the animal explodes into a green mist immediately upon impact.

Jacob lowers the scope from his eye and frowns. He waits, but the mist disappears without revealing some new creature, the way he's used to it happening in the Henbane Region.

"It's about to get weeeeiiiirrrrd," Rook sings under her breath, sounding a little nervous.

" _About_ to?" Jacob mutters, then Rook grabs his shoulder, and he turns to see _eight_ of the fucking things, spread out on the ridge just above them. They look _pissed_.

"Okay," he says quickly, his shoulder knocking against hers. "Start in the middle. You work left, I work right. _Don't_ stray."

"Already on it," she says, and sends an arrow flying at the moose in the center. It explodes into a green cloud on impact.

Jacob gets to work. Between the two of them, they take out six before the charging animals reach them, and, with seconds to spare, he grabs Rook by the arm and drags her out of the way with him. The pair of moose barge past them, and Rook's hands are on him, pulling him _up_ and _around_ as the moose start to bank in opposite directions. In unison, he and Rook fire opposite shots, him right and her left, and the final pair vanish in more clouds of green.

There's less of a reprieve this time. More green mist starts materializing in bursts all around them. "This is when the bears show up," barks Rook, and if he didn't know any better, he'd think she sounded excited at the prospect. "Stay close, _please_ don't—"

"I won't wander, Rook, don't you worry," he drawls, dragging back the bolt on his rifle even as he turns and puts his back to hers.

The next few moments pass in a blur of green. Each cloud gives way to a new moose, which, when shot, turns into a predator—a bear here, a cougar there. Once, a turkey, which he'd say was a nice change except it got close enough to scratch the shit out of his arm. The butt of his rifle kicks back into his shoulder, over and over again. He knows that Rook is shooting, too; he can feel her elbow bumping into his ribs periodically as she draws her bow, and, far from being annoyed, he relishes each impact, glad for evidence of the damage she's doing.

It's slightly slow going—they keep grabbing at one another, jerking each other around, throwing each other off, sacrificing effectiveness in favor of not losing contact as one or the other has to dodge a fresh attack, but they're steadily picking the things, off one at a time.

"Shit!" she barks after a little while.

" _What_ ," he says sharply, his tone conveying the sentiment _you better not be fucking up back there_.

"Outta arrows," she shouts, as if he's not right behind her. "No biggie. Keep shooting!"

"Can do," he says, and takes out another cougar. Not two seconds later, her pistol fire fills his ears.

In short order after that, the predators are gone. Jacob reloads even as he looks around, spots one last judge moose running along the tree line a dozen yards away.

Rook moves to stand beside him, lifts her gun. He takes aim as the moose screams and veers towards them, and in unison, they pump the fucking thing full of bullets—for the last time, it turns out. It loses its footing, crashes down onto its face, and slides to a stop just a few feet away from them.

The air is thick with gun smoke and Bliss. Rook stands rigid, tense, staring at the moose's body with wide eyes, like she expects it to jump back up and charge them again, and Jacob doesn't blame her, but given the lack of green clouds spawning from its body, he's pretty sure it's dead. Sure enough, in fact, to walk over and kick its snout with his boot.

It doesn't move. He shrugs— _that's that_ —and walks back over to Rook. "Dead," he says simply.

She has a fresh split in her lip and her face is a little dirty. She points at his arm, he looks it over and shrugs—it's bleeding, but not gushing, he'll find some way to clean and bandage it later. After seeing for herself that he's not badly hurt, she grins at him and says, "That was _fun_."

He raises an eyebrow. "You got a strange idea of fun."

"Oh, come on, it was a rush, and we didn't have to kill any _people_. It was a walk in the park." She's breathing kind of heavily, but still smiling wide.

"Well," he says. "Fun's over now."

Then he draws his knife.

He sees the fear flash across her face, sees her take a quick step back from him, and it gratifies him. He gives her a small smile, then turns and heads back to the dead moose. He keeps his knife razor sharp, and it sinks into the moose's neck with practically no effort on his part.

As he starts sawing away, he hears Rook approach him from the back. "Uhhh. Jacob. _What_ are you doing?"

The blood leaks out onto his hands, still hot, steaming in the cold air. He can smell it, sharp and metallic in his nostrils. "Meat's all gone to shit—Bliss's ruined it—but m'gonna take the head," he says, working away. "Put it on John's dining room table."

She laughs out loud. "That's _disgusting_!" She sounds overjoyed; despite her words, he'd guess that she loves the idea. She comes a little closer, crouches down near to him, though he notes that she still maintains a foot or so's distance. "Look at those antlers. That thing's gonna weigh eighty pounds."

"At least," he says, sniffing.

"You up to carrying it till we find a truck or something?"

"Yep."

She falls quiet, just watching as he works at the moose's thick neck. The spine is a little tricky, but the serrated part of the blade makes quick enough work of it, and after a short time, the head falls away from the rest of the body. He wipes the blade on the grass, then his hands—it doesn't get rid of all the blood, but his skin isn't _dripping_ anymore—then reaches for the antlers.

Rook is up in a flash, grabbing the antlers on the other side, and he glances at her. She catches the look, gives him a dismissive little frown, and says, "I wasn't _really_ gonna make you carry it alone, come on. It'll be easier this way. The _look_ on John's face—" and she breaks into a cackle as they lift the head from the ground. Jacob says nothing, just sets them on a path back the way they came. She's right, it's much easier, less of a chore divided between the two of them.

She doesn't have to stick around. They both know it. The moose is dead; the safest thing for her to do at this point is vanish into the trees. Neither of them says anything about it. They just carry the head through the woods, trying to find the nearest road.

"So let me ask you something," she says after they've gone a few hundred feet.

"Hmm," he says, his tone not particularly encouraging, because who _knows_ what she's turning over in that weird little mind of hers.

"Where are the children?"

" _What_?"

"The _kids_."

"I heard you, I just—that's an odd question."

" _Is_ it? Because I've been here for over a month, and I haven't seen _any_ children. Kim Rye's pregnant, but that's _it_. It's weird. This is the biggest county I've ever been in, there should be kids."

Jacob thinks about it for a little while. "Well. There are some children at the compound."

She turns her head, looks skeptical. " _I_ didn't see any."

He scoffs. "You've been there once, in the middle of the night. Of _course_ you didn't see any. There aren't that many, but they're there."

"And the rest of the county?"

"Pretty much everyone who had children started moving out once we moved in. Worried about what might happen."

"Smart move."

"I agree," he says. "There's no reason for children to be here. Not during the Reaping."

She's silent to that. They go on for a little while, long enough for him to reflect on how _bone-tired_ he is—if he wasn't moving, he'd be drowsy as hell, it must be two in the morning at this point and the older he gets the harder all-nighters hit him—and then she tilts her head back and groans.

"Ughhh, I'm so _hungry_."

"You eat today?" he asks idly. John had insisted on them having dinner together at his ranch, venison and greens. It's been a good while since then, but not enough for him to feel the gnawing at his stomach that he hates so much.

She takes a long time to answer, long enough for him to shoot her a narrow look. She should be more on top of her meals, especially after she'd gotten a good taste of starvation from him. Finally, sounding a little sheepish, she admits, "Addie made me an omelet. Mid-morning, I think."

"Dep."

"Don't even _tell_ me you're gonna disapprove of me skipping a few meals," she says, joking, but with a little dark edge to her voice.

"I'd have just thought you'd be keeping a closer eye on yourself these days."

"Yeah, _thanks_." She sounds bitter, but the bitterness is gone in moments when she adds, lightly, "I would _kill_ for some McDonald's."

" _McDonald's?_ " He can't hide the disgust in his voice. She laughs in disbelief.

"Oh, are you telling me you wouldn't go for a big sloppy burger right now?"

"From _McDonald's_? I don't think so."

"Since when did _you_ get on a high horse about food? There's no way you don't live off of MREs, and I have _multiple_ sources that say your family is _terrible_ at cooking."

"Who says that?" he demands.

"People."

"What people?"

"Uh-uh. I'm not telling you _that_. I'm pretty sure you'll try to kill them."

She's _right,_ but he's not going to admit it. He says, "I can make you the best burger you've ever tasted."

" _Really_."

"Serious. Keep it simple—meat, garlic, and steak sauce, charcoal grilled. Guarantee you've never had better."

"Maybe I'm just really hungry, but that _does_ sound good," she confesses after a moment. "But _someone_ in your family is bad at cooking. Who's the culprit?"

He pauses for a second, wondering idly if it would be a betrayal to talk about his family, but eventually decides, _no, it's just the truth_. "All of them, really."

The Deputy snickers. He continues: "Faith never got a chance to learn. John has always been able to _pay_ someone to cook for him. Joseph cooked for himself for a long while, but I gather it was always pretty basic stuff. He gets a little over-confident sometimes, these days."

She laughs again, sounding truly delighted. "I _knew_ it; y'all are a _mess_."

"And _you_?" he challenges her.

"Hell _yes,_ I cook. Fancy stuff, too, sometimes. I can make you coq au vin like you've never had," she brags. "And, oh, my _god_ we have to stop talking about this because my stomach is going to _eat itself_."

This is all getting too chummy, so he's plenty happy to let the topic lapse, especially since they've happened upon another small stream. He bends his knees to set down the moose head, and she follows suit—he can see her out of the corner of his eye, looking curiously at him. He doesn't bother to say anything to her, just ventures into the stream, crouching to rinse the blood from his hands and wash off the scratches on his arm, then he splashes some water across his face.

The Bliss has been fading, slowly but surely, as they left the Judge Moose's den, but after the icy water hits his skin, he's pretty sure it's gone entirely.

He looks back at the Deputy, thinks about telling her she should go—but she's looking through the trees, and only glances at him for a second before returning her attention to whatever had caught it. She lifts her hand, pointing, and says, "Look."

He obliges. Through the trees, he sees a cabin, dark inside and out.

He rises, shakes the water off his hands, and asks, "You think it's unoccupied?"

"Most in the county are, from what I've seen." She pauses as he wades back to shore, then says, "I'm pretty worn out. If there's no one in it, it could be nice to get a few hours' sleep before morning."

She's not wrong. Jacob is feeling pretty tired as well; the prospect of a roof and a bed is a tempting one. He says, "Might have Resistance in it."

"Might have Cult in it." she counters. "Let's check it out, at least."

"All right. Right behind you."

* * *

 **A/N** \- the movie Rook was talking about was Ever After because of course it was

next up: sleepover. shit gets a little weird. go figure.


	6. Hunting Party - 5

**Hunting Party**

 **5.**

They leave the moose's head on the porch. It doesn't take long to establish that the cabin is, in fact, abandoned.

"No power," Jacob calls to her from the den.

"Yeah," she calls back, hitting the kitchen faucet. "But the water's still running."

"Good enough."

Rook gets out her Maglite to check their resources, and a quick search of the bathroom reveals a basic first aid kit. "Hey, Jacob, come here," she says. She hears the floorboards creaking under his boots as he moves, and after a moment, he stands in the doorway. She indicates the little white case with the light. "You should take care of your arm," she says. "No telling what that thing was carrying."

He comes in close, takes the case out of her hands, and sets it on the counter. The bathroom is pretty small; she'd have to edge around him to get out, so she decides to try and be helpful instead, just rises to her feet next to him and shines the light on the contents of the case. He selects a little packet of alcohol wipes, uses his teeth to rip into it, then swipes at the scratches clotting blood on his arm. He doesn't react to the sting.

"How do you think you got _talon_ scratches if we were just fighting a hallucinogenic moose?" she asks to fill the silence.

"Hell if I know," he grumbles. "Probably a real turkey just got sucked into the fight."

"Dumbass turkey."

He huffs a little at that, a quiet sound she knows signifies a genuine laugh on his part. She loves when she manages to make him laugh, given how rare an occurrence it is, but she doesn't want to let on how much it pleases her, so she changes the subject. "Isn't alcohol bad for open wounds?"

He turns his head; she shines the light up to him to see that he's raising a skeptical eyebrow.

"Yeah," she says brightly. "It kills the _good_ bacteria along with the bad. Makes the healing take longer. Better to just wash the wounds with soap and water, I hear."

"My good bacteria will be fine," he growls, swiping the wipe along his scratches a couple more times, then he reaches for the bandages.

"Well. If you say so," she sing-songs under her breath. He doesn't pay her any mind, just finishes up, covering the open cuts with a bandage. Then he takes an alcohol wipe, turns to her, and presses it to her split lip before she knows what's happening.

" _Ow!_ " she yelps, and laughs, shoving his hand away. "You bastard!"

"You gotta tend to it," he insists, deadpan, trying to push the wipe back to her face.

She blocks his hand, trying hard not to laugh again. "My _lip_ is not going to get infected, _oh my god_!"

"Suit yourself," he says with a shrug. He tosses the wipe into the sink, then turns and leaves the bathroom without another word. She tries without much success to wipe the smile off her face, then follows.

Further search reveals something interesting—she chuckles under her breath as she removes a small crate from a lower cabinet in the kitchen. "Fucking _score_."

"What you got there?"

"Looks like moonshine," she says, unscrewing the lid from one of the several mason jars she's found. She sniffs the clear liquid inside and winces. "Oh, that's moonshine all right. I knew _someone_ had to have a still setup in this county." She takes a sip, makes a face at the distinct flavor, at the burn of it traveling down her throat and settling in her chest, and when she's able to speak again, she says, "Oh, yeah, that's legit—" coughs, and then holds the jar out to him in offering.

He shakes his head.

"You sure? Get some of that white lightnin' in you. Help you sleep."

"No thanks." His tone doesn't allow for argument. She shrugs, takes another sip, then replaces the lid and sets the jars aside. He's right, getting ripshit on moonshine is a bad idea even in _normal_ circumstances, let alone circumstances where one might need to fight for one's life at any given second. She'll come back for it later, take it to the boys during safer times. No doubt Sharky and Hurk can make good use of it.

The upper cabinets in the kitchen yield canned goods. "Oh, hell yeah, that's what I'm talking about," Rook says when the flashlight shows her that the best-by dates on most of them are a few years into the future. She grabs a can of baked beans, then another, turning to show it to Jacob. "Hungry?"

"Not particularly," he grunts. "You go ahead."

She shrugs, puts one can back, then searches the drawers until she finds a can opener. Cold, canned baked beans are not the best food in the world, but she's pretty damn hungry, so they'll do. She hoists herself up on the counter, sitting facing Jacob, and eats daintily from the open can with a spoon.

"I'd start a fire," he says, checking the windows, "but smoke from the chimney—that'd draw attention."

"S'okay," she says after swallowing a mouthful. "It's not too cold yet. I think we'll be all right."

"There's one bed," he says, and turns, fixing her with a hard stare.

Yeah. She'd noticed. She's absolutely not interested in spending a bunch of time negotiating sleeping arrangements—it promises to be an awkward conversation, and she's nowhere _near_ there yet. She swallows again, then says, "Yeah. Can I have the couch?" He raises an eyebrow. She shrugs. "I've always slept well on couches. God, couch naps got me through college. You take the bed, I'm good out here."

"All right." He stares for a moment longer, then nods. "Then I'm gonna go to sleep. It's been a long night."

She gives him a little salute with her spoon. "Sweet dreams. See you in the morning."

His jaw tenses, he nods, and then he turns and heads away, towards the bedroom.

Rook finishes her beans, tossing the can and spoon in the sink once she's done. She feels sated—her stomach must be shrinking, it's only been a few days since she'd have wolfed down another can in addition to the first, and she makes a note to try to _eat_ _more_ , sometimes nowadays she can see her ribs and she doesn't like that—and she retires to the couch. There's a knitted throw blanket there, left by the cabin's previous owners, and it serves to cover her up. She strips off her jacket and overshirt, removes the holster from her thigh (and tucks the pistol it holds under the couch cushions, in easy reach) but leaves her tank top and jeans on. There's a part of her that tells her she shouldn't be falling asleep at _all_ , dressed or not dressed, with Jacob just in the next room, and she knows that's true, but he's also been with her all night and hasn't tried to kill her yet, so…

A lot's been going on, her mind is a live wire, but her body's exhaustion overpowers the urgency of her thoughts in minutes. She falls asleep fast.

* * *

She wakes up in a cage.

She looks around in a panic. _No, no, no, no,_ _ **no**_ _._

She hears the familiar sound of boots on gravel, and then—Jacob, arriving in front of the bars, tilting his head to look at her a little more on her level.

He smiles, just a little. His smiles are so rare. She wishes that this one didn't mean something _bad_.

"Did you think this was over?" he asks in his familiar soft tones. He waits for a moment, but she can't speak, and eventually he continues. "This will _never_ be over, Dep. There's _work_ to be done."

He pulls the music box out of his pocket. Her instinct is to recoil, but that's never helped her before, so instead, she presses forward, grasping the bars, reaching one hand out through to him. "Jacob," she says, her voice choked and breaking. "Jacob, _don't_ —"

He opens the box.

 _Only you…_

Rook jerks violently awake.

The music echoes in her ears, but she doesn't see the familiar red mist. Her lungs feel heavy, choked, and she sits up, trying to catch her breath.

She has no idea what time it is. It's still dark. It doesn't take long for her to notice the silhouette of Jacob, standing at the end of the couch. Rook immediately recoils, sitting up against the arm of the couch furthest from him, drawing her legs up as close to her as she can.

His shoulders are hunched. His head is down. He's dressed, mostly, but not wearing his jacket or boots. She's not sure if he's awake.

"Jacob," she says softly, shakily, the fearful sentiment of her dream still strong in her heart. Her pistol is under the cushion beneath her. She's not sure if she should go for it or not. "What's happening?"

He shakes his head, but she can't see his face. After a moment, feet shuffling heavily against the ground, he moves around the couch, sits on the end furthest from her.

After a long, breathless moment, he says, "Come here."

She doesn't move. There's a solid part of her that _wants_ to, wants to go to him immediately to soothe her fears and remind her that for _now_ , at least, her dream was nothing but smoke and mirrors, but she's still got a bit of dream hangover, is terrified of moving close to him. She says, softly, "I don't want to."

He sighs, a long exhale. He says, "I'm not gonna hurt you, Rook. Come here."

She's not sure she believes him, but she has a hard time disobeying him outright. Her limbs are shifting before she can stop them, and she eases herself across the couch closer to him, approaching gingerly, the way she might move around a rabid dog.

He's not content to just have her sitting beside him. In silence, he reaches sideways, plants his big hands on her waist and pulls her into his lap.

She lets him settle her onto him—the words _exposure therapy_ flashing through her mind even as her heart races—one leg on either side of his, and rather than sit facing him like that, she folds her arms around his neck and leans forward to bury her face in the crook of her elbow, admittedly hiding.

It's a little easier this way. Despite how close they are, their bodies flush against one another, she doesn't have to look at him, and she can feel between her legs—he's not hard; this doesn't seem to be a sex thing, which is a relief, because despite the fact that she's harboring some powerful feelings of _want_ , she's not quite mentally or emotionally _there_ yet, especially not right _now_. He puts his arms around her, and she just breathes against him, trying to calm down.

Jacob's not much of a talker, and if she waits for him to say something, she might be waiting all night. So she says, softly, "Are you awake right now?" She's still not entirely sure—he seems lucid, but her brother used to sleepwalk, could pass as awake until he tried to have a conversation and just started spouting nonsense. Certainly Jacob Seed coming to her in the middle of the night and pulling her into his arms for no apparent reason counts as _nonsensical_.

"I'm awake," he says, his voice low and familiar.

She's not convinced. " _Why_ are you awake?"

He takes a long time to answer. She actually thinks he's not going to bother, or that he's fallen back asleep—his breathing is slow and regular, she can feel it in the rise and fall of his chest against hers—then he says, "Same reason as you, I reckon." She shakes her head a little. _He can't just say_ _ **nightmares**_ _._ It makes sense—she's read Joseph's book, has inferred that he has a healthy dose of PTSD. She imagines his nights don't pass easily, most of the time.

She settles a little closer against him, feeling some of the tension bleeding out of her as she really starts to believe what he'd said, _I won't hurt you_. His arms tighten around her a little more, and she turns her head so that her face is pressed into his neck, feeling the scratch of his beard against her cheek.

She wants to tell him about her dream, but she's too afraid, too worried that he'll tell her outright that it's accurate, what she can expect in the future. She takes an oblique approach to the issue instead and asks, "How many times tonight did you want to kill me?"

"Just once," he replies easily, without hesitation.

She laughs at that, a low, surprised little snicker, turning her face away again so he won't be able to feel her smiling against his skin. She's a little too late. He says, "Your sense of humor is kinda fucked up sometimes, you know that?" The question sounds almost _fond_ , and she's not sure she's comfortable with how much she likes that tone coming from him.

"Yeah, well, if it's between laughing or crying…" She trails off, and he grunts, a quiet sound that she thinks signifies understanding.

Both of them are silent for a long time after that. Rook doesn't know what Jacob's thinking or feeling—she rarely does—but for her part, _exposure therapy_ seems to have been spot on. The dread and terror that had followed her out of her dream have faded, soothed away by time and the fact that Jacob's arms are tight around her and _feel_ comforting and secure, even though her logical brain knows that is far from the case. Right now she's getting sleepy again and the air in the cabin is cold but Jacob is very warm, and she's almost positive that if he was planning to do harm to her he wouldn't have pulled her into his lap like this, so she doesn't really give a shit what her logical brain has to say.

Maybe she's dozed off a little bit, because when he speaks, even though his voice is as quiet as ever, it startles her.

He asks, "You ever seen someone drown, Deputy?"

It takes her a second to wrap her head around the question, as out of the blue as it is. Once she processes it, she shakes her head, slowly, _no._

"Yeah," he says, as though he'd anticipated that answer. " _I_ have."

She'd gathered, otherwise he wouldn't have brought it up, but she stays silent, curious as to where he's going with this.

He shifts beneath her. Thinking he's getting uncomfortable, she moves as if to climb off him, but he tightens his grip almost in warning, one of his hands sliding up into her hair. _Okay, then._ She settles back against him, rests her face against his neck again, _I'm not going anywhere_.

"I was just a kid. I must've been twelve or so." The words come easily, more easily than she's used to from him, and she realizes it's because he's shifted into that mode she's seen from him only a couple of times, always when he's got her at the Center, the _lecturer_ mode _._ She shivers; possibly interpreting it as a reaction to cold, he runs a warm, mollifying hand slowly down her back, which _doesn't help_.

"There were a pair of older kids, lived a few neighborhoods away. Ricky… and Daryl; those were their names. Just a couple of dumb rednecks. Bullies. They didn't bother me much after the first time—they were thirteen and fifteen, thereabouts, but I was big for my age, and mean. They liked to corner Joseph, though. He never paid the attention he should've. Always lost in his own head. If I wasn't around, they'd beat him up, rip his shirts, throw rocks at him, things like that." He chuckles, a wry little laugh. "As if he didn't get enough of that at home, right?"

Rook interprets the question as rhetorical and remains silent, just listening.

He draws a breath and continues. "Anyway. There was an old quarry not too far from our house. Couple of miles, an easy trip to make for active kids who hated being at home. We used to swim there—summer in Georgia gets pretty damn hot, and we didn't have air conditioning, so we were there just about every day. It was kind of a no man's land for the kids in the area, cause we all used it, so if someone you didn't like showed up…" She feels him shrug beneath her arms. "You just moved to the other side of the lake.

"One day I headed out there. I was by myself; I don't remember what Joseph was up to that he wasn't with me."

He's silent for a long time, nearly a minute. Rook has gathered by now that he's not going to leave this unfinished, so she imagines he's just reliving the memory again, possibly for the first time in a long time.

Finally, he says, "Ricky was already drowning when I got there. Daryl was swimming out to try and save him. Now, I don't know if you know this, but drowning? It's a quiet thing. Subtle. There's no flailing, no screaming for help. The person drowning is so focused on trying to keep their head above water, they forget about anything else. Unless something comes in reach that they can grab onto.

"You probably see where this is going. Daryl reached his brother, Ricky latched onto him. Pulled him down. He didn't mean to, it's just how dying works. You stop thinking about anything but survival. I watched 'em bobbing up and down for maybe a minute, then their heads went under, and they just… didn't come back up."

He stops talking after that. Rook thinks, but doesn't speak, doesn't want to risk pissing him off, messing this up, doesn't want him to push her off of him when he's so warm and she's so drowsy and comfortable. She wonders why he decided to tell her about this, what he's trying to say, or if he's trying to say anything at all. She wonders if she's supposed to be the drowning one, or if _he_ is. She wonders if he has nightmares about it—or if it even counts as a bad memory to him. Certainly he's said nothing to indicate that he lifted a finger to intervene; maybe even as a boy Jacob's mentality was ruthless and he saw it as a convenient solution to a persistent problem.

She wonders if he's ever planning to let her go. He certainly doesn't seem eager to loosen his grip on her, and it's late enough and the nightmare is far enough from her mind now that she's _actually_ starting to fall asleep again, right there on top of him.

And then she does. Just drifts off pressed against him, her tired brain lulled into a false sense of security by his arms tight around her. She wakes, briefly, when he moves them—he's lying down on the couch and pulling her with him, and she panics for a second, forgetting who's got her, but his grip on her doesn't loosen enough to give her the space to really start fighting, and he just says, "Shh," a few times, dismissively enough for her to remember who he is. She relaxes a little then, lets him arrange them, his back to the couch, her back to his front, and it's a wide couch but he's a broad man and the only thing keeping her off the edge are his arms, one slung over her hip and the other curled around her neck, the hand resting on her shoulder.

After a second, he lifts the arm that's on her hip and leans over her, squishing her some as he roots around under the couch cushion beneath them and pulls out the gun. She hears him sigh—probably disapproves of her stashing it directly under her head—and his weight presses into her a little more as he reaches down to the floor and carefully sets the gun down. Then he settles back and replaces his arm and exhales slowly, relaxing.

It's been a long set of days. She passes out again pretty quickly.

When she wakes up again, it's to bright sunlight streaming in through the cabin windows. She squints through a screen of rumpled hair for a few seconds, her consciousness slowly catching up to her, remembering where she is and who she's with. His arms are still around her. He's still warm, pressed close against her back. And further down, she feels—

 _Ah._

"Relax, Deputy," he says into her ear—she hadn't even known he was _awake_. "S'just morning wood."

His voice is sleep-rough, _unforgivably_ gravelly, and honestly, it's too fucking early in the morning for that low part of her stomach to _swoop_ like that at the sound of it. As if acting on its own, her palm glides slowly over the forearm he's got pressed against her stomach, and for a split second, her mind still a little hazy with sleep, she considers pushing back against that waiting hardness— _it's starting to look like it'll happen eventually, I have the implant and I doubt he's carrying anything, why not right now if we both want it?_ —but it's such a foolish, half-formed thought that she doesn't act on it, then he's letting her go, pushing politely at her, and she's not sure if she's relieved or not when she slides off the couch onto the floor, giving him some room.

She sits up cross-legged, lifts her arms above her head to stretch muscles cramped from sleeping for so long in the same position, and she yawns. Jacob's feet hit the floor, then he's leaving, heading for the bedroom.

Rook picks up her pistol from beside her, gets up, goes to the kitchen, rinses her mouth out and then drinks for a while directly from the faucet. She should probably eat something before she forgets for another whole day, but truthfully, she has absolutely no appetite—it's been chased away by nerves. Last night, half-asleep and in the dark, it had seemed easy to fold herself into him, to talk to him, to listen to him talk to her, to _sleep_ with him. In the light of day, it feels… different. Like the night before had been nothing but a few ill-advised fever dreams, like none of it had ever happened.

Jacob's back after just a short while. His boots, jacket, and holster are all back on. There's no trace of awkwardness on him, of course not—he comes to a stop just inside the kitchen, a few feet away from her, meets her eye, and says, "I'm gonna go find a truck."

 _Well, if he doesn't feel awkward, then neither the hell do I_. Faking it is as valid a strategy as any. She raises an eyebrow and says, "Want backup?"

He grunts, gives her a half-shrug. It's not a _no_ , which is about the closest thing to a _yes_ she ever gets from him. She nods, says, "Let me use the bathroom and suit up. I'll be ready in just a second."

Not long after, they're back in the woods again. The morning is still brisk, but they're moving fast, and Rook's blood warms in no time. Jacob leads the way, doesn't bother to look back at her to make sure she's following. She's not sure whether to be flattered or insulted that he seems perfectly fine keeping his back to her.

Less than a mile from the cabin, they find one of the dozens of Peggy trucks that run though the county, on the side of the road, presumably abandoned. They eye it from the tree line for a second before Jacob says, "I'm gonna take a look at it."

"Okay. I'll keep an eye out for Resistance," she says. She hadn't made the time to gather up her arrows the night before, but she's still got several mags for her pistol, and she pulls it, holding it with the barrel pointed to the ground, keeping to the trees, watching the road and watching Jacob as he approaches the truck.

He prowls around, checking out the truck. After a moment, she hears him say, "Goddamn idiots."

"What is it?" she calls.

"Flat tire. The stuff to change it is _right here_. Some of these people, I don't know how they manage to put pants on in the morning."

She snickers, but cuts herself off abruptly when she hears a motor in the distance.

She whistles, sharp, warning. Jacob hunches down, crouching next to the tire furthest from the road as a bright red sedan tops the ridge above them. Resistance, not Cult coming back for the truck, and Rook holds her breath as she watches Jacob put a hand on his knife. _Just drive by,_ she wills them. _Don't give him a reason to kill you._

Fortunately, they don't seem interested in the Peggy truck, and she and Jacob are both out of easy view of the road. They drive on past, and she waits till they disappear around a bend before calling, "Okay. Clear."

He straightens up again and pulls a jack and a lug wrench out of the truck. She asks, "You want some help?"

"Nope. You just enjoy the view."

That gets an _immediate_ , startled bark of laughter out of her. She shades her eyes against the glare of the morning sun and doesn't comment—doesn't want to incriminate herself—but she does indeed watch closely as he jacks the car up, then takes the wrench to the lug nuts. It doesn't take her long to realize he's talking to himself, a running stream of bad-tempered muttering, that, if she concentrates, she can make out in fragments.

"—talk to John—little shits, too dumb or too lazy to take care of their equipment—doesn't know how to change a _tire_?"

She wouldn't have predicted this morning that Jacob would be ornery and bitching about proper car maintenance within the hour, but now that it's happening, it's funny as hell. She should've known this was the sort of thing that would bother him, enough to rouse him from his usual taciturn default into complaining out loud. (She imagines it's even worse that _she's_ there to see the carelessness firsthand.)

She has to stop him once more, when more Resistance drives past, but she gathers it's still pretty early, and the roads are mostly quiet. She thinks he might even be a little annoyed that no Peggies come by so he can read them the riot act over the abandoned truck—or maybe she's just projecting, because that's something _she_ would definitely enjoy seeing.

In short order, he's done. He tosses the wrench into the back of the truck and calls out, "Come on. Let's go."

Rook leaves the tree line and asks, "We going back for the moose head?"

"Yep," he says, slinging himself into the driver's seat easily.

"Oh, swag," she says, jogging around the front of the truck, sneaking a glance through the windshield to see that he's watching her with a narrow frown, like he's not entirely sure what she just said but _strongly_ suspects it's intended to get a rise out of him. She plays it as innocent as she can, hopping into the passenger seat and meeting his suspicious scowl with big eyes, _what, what'd I say?_

He apparently doesn't want to deal with it, because he just orders, "Put your seatbelt on," as he turns the keys in the ignition.

"What, are you planning to get into a wreck during the _one mile_ drive back to the cabin?"

"Don't be an idiot, Dep. You can't tell what's going to happen out here and I don't want to have to scrape you off the asphalt. We're not moving an inch till that seatbelt's in place."

"Stickler," she complains. She thinks about telling him about that time she ran Getaway into a concrete bollard—she hadn't seen it, there was blood in her eyes at the time, she was fleeing from Angels—and flew out through the already-busted windshield, over the bollard and into the adjoining grassy field, and had somehow gotten away with just cuts and bruises, but she thinks that might hurt her case more than help it. He's watching her with no indication that he's prepared to yield, so, with an exaggerated sigh, suppressing the fear that he's insisting because he intends on taking her somewhere _other_ than the cabin— _let's be real, if he wants to do that, he'll find some way to manage, with or without my cooperation_ —she puts on her seatbelt.

True to his word, once she's complied, he takes off, pulling a sharp u-turn and setting them on the course for the cabin. No sooner do they get up to speed than he slams on the brakes, and she gives him a quick, alarmed look, but he's just growling under his breath and shaking his head—in response, she realizes, to the screeching whine from the tires. "Needs new brake pads, too," he mutters, and she hastily swallows a laugh. _Unbelievable._

He speeds up again after that. He's a careful driver, fast but attentive. After a few dozen seconds, she switches on the radio, and he immediately reaches forward and turns it off again.

"Oh, come on, that was your guys's music," she protests.

He doesn't say anything, just clears his throat. She looks at him with sudden, slightly too-cheerful suspicion.

"Maybe… okay, maybe I could see how you might be tired of hearing the same ten songs all day, every day."

Nothing. She might as well be looking at stone.

"I mean, even with the different versions, that's gotta get old."

A muscle twitches in his cheek.

"Maybe every moment you're _not_ listening to them, you count as a blessing."

"We're back," he announces abruptly as he pulls into the little driveway leading to the cabin.

"That was _fast,_ " she remarks, ditching the seatbelt immediately and climbing from the truck.

" _You_ said it. Less than a mile," he says as he gets out. "Come on. Help me with this thing."

Together, they wrangle the moose head—now smelling a lot less like Bliss and a little more like rot—into the truck bed. "This is the best idea," she says. "I'm _so_ glad you had this idea."

He can't exactly look serious and disapproving at that, the whole thing is petty as hell and it _was_ his idea and he knows it, but he does ignore her input, heading back to the cabin without a word. She follows, because her bow is still in there and she wants to wash the dead moose off her hands.

With Jacob in the back room, giving her some breathing space, she has to admit to herself that this whole thing is coming to a rapid end.

She's annoyed when the thought prompts a little bit of tightness in her chest. This was never supposed to be _this_ , anyway—she was just popping into John's ranch for a quick _hi, how are you_ , definitely hadn't planned on spending the whole _night_ with him. She can't just hang around with Jacob Seed for days on end, pretending he's not the enemy. She's got to get back to the Sisyphean work of figuring out how to simultaneously rout the cult, keep him alive, and avoid losing any more of her people.

"Clock's ticking." She's getting better at not jumping when Jacob sneaks up on her, so when she hears his voice nearby, she just turns to look at him. He stands just inside the kitchen again, and he's got his rifle on his back, is clearly preparing to leave.

He must see something of what she's thinking on her face. He just stares at her for a moment, nodding in silence, then raises an eyebrow, challenging her, and says, "You ready to come home yet?"

As always, when he broaches that subject, she has a hard time meeting his eye with any honesty. She hides behind a practiced, sly smile and counters: "Ready to let Pratt go yet?"

"Hmmph." It's _almost_ a laugh. She wishes he didn't automatically consider that question a joke.

She glances past him towards the door, then back at his face. "You should probably go. I'll make my own way. Don't exactly want to come with you back to John's, as much as I'd _love_ to see the look on his face when he sees that thing. The temptation might prove too much for him."

She's talking in a relaxed, almost playful tone, but in truth, she's tense as hell, because this all comes down to if Jacob is planning on _letting_ her go or not. He doesn't seem married to the idea of keeping her caged up there in the mountains, has let her go over and over, but she can't help but feel that _some day_ her luck is going to run out.

He just folds his arms and looks at her for a while. Abruptly, after he's been staring for just a second too long and she's getting squirrely enough that she's starting to consider making a break for it, he says, "Things are about to get bad."

She tilts her head, pretending she doesn't feel the little thump of fear in her heart at those words. "They're not _already_ bad?"

He smiles at her—not with his mouth, but with his eyes—and it chills her. He says, "You have _no idea_."

He says, "Remember when I told you… this little _crush_ of yours had an expiration date?" She nods; he nods back, raises his eyebrows, and says, "It's coming up _fast_."

Her feelings upon hearing that are… complicated. Part of her is petrified, doesn't even want to _think_ about whatever he's got planned. Part of her knows those plans were _always_ in play, that _nothing_ about Jacob has changed between the first time she kissed him and right now, and that this could very well be a manipulation tactic, reverse psychology, _you're not strong enough to stick around_ as a means of _goading_ her to stick around.

She's suddenly annoyed—at all of it, at everything, and if her smile of response is a little too sudden, a little too mocking, she can't really bring herself to care. She tilts her head and asks, "Are you breaking up with me?"

" _Rook._ " Apparently he doesn't think that's funny, though which part bugs him most—the implication that they're going steady now, or her general refusal to take him seriously—she'd be hard-pressed to say.

" _Jacob,_ " she says, matching his sharp, stern tone, and she opens up her arms, palms out, aggressive and confused all at once. "What, are you trying to scare me off? Warn me? _Threaten_ me? I _know_ you've got some nasty shit planned for me. I've known it from the first time I _saw_ you, Red."

He doesn't answer her. He just looks at her with that neutral, alien expression he gets sometimes, an expression that makes her feel like all he _really_ wants is to cut her open and see what makes her tick. She drops her hands to her legs, still watching him, and shakes her head. "You know what? You do what you've gotta do and we'll leave it at that, okay? I'll be sure to let you know if it gets to be too much."

She's still a little afraid of his energy right now, afraid that if she gets too close, he'll grab her and just _won't_ let go, but mostly, she's mad, enough to ignore caution, so she heads right past him towards the door.

He doesn't touch her. He stays put, feet planted, arms crossed, staring distantly at the window that had been behind her. Before she can think twice or talk herself out of it, she impulsively doubles back, drawing his attentive eye again.

"You know," she says, quietly, as if there's any chance at all of them being overheard, "just so it's out there: I really liked spending last night with you." He stares at her, that weird look in his eye just getting more intense, and she has to drop her gaze to his dogtags again so she doesn't chicken out on saying what she wants to say. "Y'know, I'm not going to waste time or energy… _wishing_ things were different, that we were on the same side or whatever. But even if you're right and we're just _done_ with each other as soon as someone makes another big move—fine. It is what it is, but last night was good either way. I won't regret it."

She has just enough time to register that his breathing has picked up before his hand closes around her jaw. She squeaks a little in surprise, reflexively recoiling, but his grip is tight and he guides her back, back until she bumps into the kitchen counter, and when he keeps pushing, she chooses the option that means she _doesn't_ get throttled and eases back and up onto the counter.

Once she's off her feet, he stops pushing and leans in close instead; she hears his breath hitch in her ear, and he says, "You really _are_ a goddamn fool," but his tone carries that weird affection it held the night before, rather than the harshness she expects.

His thumb pushes at her jaw, tilting her head back to expose her neck, and a split second later, she feels the wetness of his sharp teeth closing over her pulse point. She gasps at the flare of pain, flashing suddenly back to her dream from a few nights ago, to _Miller_ , and clutches at the front of his shirt, his dogtags digging into her palm as she tightens her fist, but before she can shove him back—before she can even decide if she _wants_ to—he gentles to an extent, relaxing his jaw and sucking at the bitten skin instead.

 _What the hell set him off,_ she wonders vaguely as he crowds closer, between her knees, and with his free hand he grips her lower back, dragging her towards him, almost off the edge, until she's flush against him, can feel the hardness of him right _there_ between her legs. The sudden spike of heat she feels in her gut makes her groan, and then his mouth is on hers.

She loosens her fist, slides the hand trapped between their chests up until she manages to curl it around his neck. Her other hand, she winds into the thick hair atop his head, and when she closes her fingers into a fist, pulling lightly on it, he _growls_ at her.

She laughs low in her throat, then he grinds into her and it turns into a whimper, and Jacob swallows up the sound. He releases her jaw and puts his hand high on her leg instead, warm and heavy, fingertips pressing electric little bruises into the inside of her thigh. She sucks in a sharp breath through her nose at the pain and the stimulation of his touch, kisses him _that_ much harder as he drags his palm up her leg—

—and stops. He lifts his hand from her leg, removes the other from her back, planting them instead on either side of her, and as he pulls away from her mouth, he bows his head—she lets his hair slip through her fingers; now it tickles at the crook of her neck instead—and he breathes. It's a long, slow exhale, like he's gathering control of himself.

Rook makes a soft sound of protest. She's nowhere _near_ done, but, rough-voiced, Jacob says, "Knock it off."

"Jacob—" she tries to argue, but he jerks back against her arms and glares at her with eyes that look darker than usual.

" _Rook,_ " he says, a little louder, in a tone that says he expects to be obeyed (and doesn't do much to cool her off). "This is _done_. Otherwise, I'm just not—" He pauses, closes his eyes for a second, then shakes his head, ruefully, like he's already regretting his words before he says them. "I'm not gonna let you leave," he finishes after a beat, quiet again.

 _Oh._

Even swimming in hormones, she recognizes terms when they're offered, and she could agree to these now. She could have Jacob, none of this _expiration date_ bullshit, save herself the fear of the apocalypse, save herself the work of protecting a county that might already be doomed.

It's tempting, as it always is—more so this time, in the heat of things—but Rook still just… _can't_.

He's giving her a chance to escape him, maybe the last one he's willing to offer, and although there's an increasingly-growing part of herself that doesn't _want_ to escape him, she takes him up on it. She removes her arms from his neck, one at a time, and he takes a step back, his hands sliding off the counter and uncaging her, immediately tightening into fists at his sides. She makes the mistake of meeting his eye. With his hair rumpled by her hand and pupils blown like they are, he looks half-wild; she wonders if she looks anything like that and immediately lowers her gaze, because if she does and she keeps looking at _him_ , they probably won't have much luck making this separation stick.

He takes another step back. She takes advantage of the space offered to her, hopping off the counter and quickly edging around him, careful not to touch him.

She walks at as steady a clip as she can manage towards the door, doesn't check to see if he's following, certain in some deep low part of her that if she does, he'll scent uncertainty and come prowling after her. She pushes the door open, steps up to the threshold, and only then does she pause. She turns her head, slightly, enough to see his shape out of the corner of her eye, and, unwilling to let that heavy, complicated note be the one she leaves on, she says, "Good first date. You _do_ look good changing a tire."

She doesn't stick around for a response. She moves quick into the trees, and she doesn't stop moving again until there are miles between them.

* * *

 **A/N** \- One more chapter for this little arc, a short one. I should have it up in a few days. Thanks for reading!


	7. Hunting Party - Epilogue

**Hunting Party**

 **Epilogue**

"There's your goddamn moose," Jacob had told John. "Keep your mouth shut."

It had taken more than that to get John to agree to at least temporary secrecy—he was in a bit of a snit over the rotting moose head dripping congealed blood and fluids all over his dining room table, and possibly even _more_ annoyed that Jacob had not hogtied the Deputy and brought her back to him—but at painful length, they'd hashed it out. It was easier without the Deputy there to stir the pot.

Jacob's back in the Whitetail Mountains now. It feels like he'd been down in the Valley for _weeks_ —even though his people are perfectly capable of keeping things running while he's away, there are always, always a hundred things that require _his_ attention specifically, so he's too busy to think about much but work for a while, and he's glad for it.

Near midnight, the second day he's back, he gets a call requesting him in the surveillance room. When he goes to investigate, Diaz, the soldier on duty, directs his attention to something: a shape, sneaking carefully around the edges of St. Francis' property. The Junior Deputy.

"Take her out?" Diaz asks, her hand hovering over the button that'll blast Dep's trigger song over the speakers.

Jacob makes a snap decision to roll the dice on this one. "Nah," he says. "Keep an eye on her. If she gets near the cages, go for it, otherwise let's see what she's up to."

She's playing a dangerous game here, but that's between her and God. If she gets caught, Jacob knows it's time to run her through the final trial. He's been putting it off, preoccupied with testing her in other ways, but that's about tapped out—he's given her fair warning. Whether it happens tonight, tomorrow, a few days from now… he figures it's about time. Then they'll see how friendly she feels towards him.

He leaves Diaz to watch the screens and goes back to work. When about an hour passes with no song, he figures she was just sniffing around and took off before she got in trouble. Either that or she got in and is lurking somewhere that isn't under surveillance. Somewhere like his office.

As soon as he reasonably can, he goes to investigate. Once there, he doesn't find a person—but she's been here, he can tell by the way the air feels and smells that someone's been creeping around. After searching for a minute, he finds something, a letter. It's right in the middle of his desk, but it's on paper with an Eden's Gate letterhead, so it takes him a moment to realize that the scrawling handwriting doesn't belong to any of his subordinates.

It says:

 _J,_

 _Before I settled on my career path I studied a lot of different things—philosophy, religion, psychology, all that sort of stuff. Trying to figure out life, I guess. I've been thinking about a philosopher I remember liking a lot back then, Jakob Böhme. If you're not already familiar with his work, he argued that as a result of the Fall of Man, sin, ugliness, and evil were now necessary trials for us to endure in order for us to clearly see holiness and beauty, to achieve real closeness to God. He said something that always struck me, enough that I still remember it, word for word, and I've been thinking about it a lot since I left you._

 _He said:_

" _It is not to be thought that the life of darkness is sunk in misery and lost as if in sorrowing. There is no sorrowing. For sorrow is a thing that is swallowed up in death, and death and dying are the very life of the darkness."_

 _Maybe we_ _will_ _drown each other. Maybe it's a fixed point, inevitable now. Maybe it'll be to our mutual sanctification._

It leaves off there, less of an ending and more like she ran out of words. It's unsigned.

Jacob thinks about trashing it but decides against it. No one with a healthy fear of him or God will go pilfering through his office, and it's not exactly incriminating. He goes to file the note away in a drawer, catches sight of something on the back, and flips the page over.

The last little bit of writing reads _ps: you left a gnarly hickey on my neck and I've had to wear a scarf everywhere I go since then and everyone's asking me why because I'm "not a scarf person," apparently, so yeah, that's been_ _my_ _life lately. Thanks for trying your hardest to be discreet, jackass._

He feels his mouth twitch, he rubs at it with a knuckle before a smile can form. He should've known she wouldn't be able to resist a parting shot; she never can.

He locks the note away, then stands with his hand braced against the desk for a moment, head down, thinking. He can't seem to shake her. A growing, insistent, _weak_ part of him doesn't want to anymore—which means it's time to push forward.

He'll talk to Joseph in the morning. It's time for the final trial.

 **End**

* * *

 **A/N** \- and just like that the Hunting Party section of this fic is over!

more to come. the next installment will be the longest. maybe the last one in the series? not sure yet. give me time to assemble some kind of draft and I'll be back. thank you all so much for reading along, I hope to have more to share with you soon xoxo


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